Nar
by Miranda River
Summary: What a lovely way to burn...
1. Chapter 1

My beta, mhgood, is absolutely amazing and I'm pretty sure without her this wouldn't exist. Thank you, because I can't possibly thank you enough.

He hurts.

His confusion is almost equal to his hurt, a frustration towards his inability to understand, to quantify his pain. It has the startling ability to resist his logic, to refuse desisting in spite of hours of meditation. Sleep escapes him, as it has since Vulcan, since his mother. He has tried, had even tried reading until he fell asleep. He found it to be illogical to believe that stimulating one's brain before sleeping would hasten sleep, but his mother had firmly believed in reading to her child before bed and it was a habit that he carried with him to this day. Reading doesn't make the hurt go away; reading doesn't make him forget the gaping hole that threatens to consume him.

This is illogical.

He is in perfect health, as certified by Dr. Leonard McCoy. There is nothing broken, nothing missing, all of his limbs and organs accounted for. Nevertheless, he hurts and hurts greatly.

He suddenly finds himself walking the passageways of the _Enterprise_ with a destination in mind. He is grateful for the late hour, there are hardly any other crew members to question his actions. The chances they would do so were highly improbable. As Commander, his presence would go noticed but unquestioned. Even then, as a half-Vulcan, most are wary of confrontation with him. Particularly since he is now known as the one who nearly killed a man. He is grateful for the barrenness of people during his walk.

He stops, arriving at his destination, and requests entrance. It occurs to him that Lieutenant Uhura-_Nyota--_is most likely sleeping, exhausted both physically and mentally from the past few days. He should let her rest, let her recuperate. He starts to turn away, to walk away and not trouble her with his insomnia, when she answers the door.

She was sleeping, is still half-asleep. She leans against the door for support, blinking at the bright lights of the corridor. Her hair is down, and he realizes that he has never seen it down before and has only now realized how much he has wanted to see it like this-free, framing her face, slightly curling. He wants to run his fingers through it, to feel for himself how soft and silken it is. She is wearing a tank top and pants that are a size too big for her, hanging low on her hips. Her Starfleet uniform that he has ashamedly had fantasies about has nothing on Nyota's choice of sleepwear.

"Spock?" she asks sleepily. The 'k' is softer than it usually is, swallowed by a yawn.

"My apologies, Lieutenant. I did not mean to wake you."

"Spock," she says softly and he wants to weep at the way she says his name, the way she seems to storm all of his defenses, all of his walls that he has so carefully built around himself. "Come inside."

She knows, she always seems to know what he needs and he still is not sure how she is able to, how she is able to translate him with such eloquence and perfection.

She makes him sit in a chair facing her bed, a chair that belongs at a desk because since none of them have anything beyond the necessities; she doesn't have her favorite reading chair with her. It suffices. She sits on the edge of her bed, just watching him. It is warm in her room, warmer than most humans have their living quarters by ten degrees. She instructs the computer to dim the lights, and waits. She is waiting, he knows, for him to speak, for him to become comfortable.

"I hurt," he tells her.

He watches her eyes for any confusion, any indication that she has any idea what he is talking about, but the only thing he finds is compassion.

"Oh, Spock. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry," she tells him quietly.

"Why? You could not have prevented the events that unfolded."

She nods, but he notices that her lips are pursed ever so slightly. He has forgotten again, forgotten that humans say things that have ambiguous meanings.

"But I am sorry that you have to go through this, that you have to live with this pain. It's something no one should have to deal with. You mean a lot to me, Spock. You are someone I care about. That is why I'm sorry."

He nods, understanding. "Thank you."

"Do you want to talk about it?" she asks him hesitantly.

"What is there to talk about? My planet is gone, my people a victim of genocide. My mother is dead. It is logical that I grieve for someone I care about. There is nothing to talk about."

"Okay," Nyota tells him.

He does not want to leave. It is logical for him to leave, there is nothing left for him to say. But he doesn't want to go back to his quarters that have seemed more like a cage. He does not want to leave her or her warmth.

She walks up to him and tugs at him until he stands. "Come on," she says as she attempts to take his shirt off.

He assumes that this is some kind of seduction, that Nyota feels that she needs to comfort him physically. The thought appeals to him more than it should, tempting him to replace the gaping existence in him with Nyota, to forget the pain through simply being. Perhaps sexual relations can do what meditation has failed to accomplish.

He notices that she hasn't made any attempt to illicit a physical response out of him. She has not kissed him nor touched him other than to remove his shirt, which she is now folding and putting on the chair.

"You need to sleep, Spock," she says gently. "We can talk in the morning."

She instructs the computer to turn off the lights after she climbs into the bed after him. In a moment that surprises even him, he pulls her close to him, her back to his chest, his chin on top of her head. They fit perfectly, he marvels. Of course, perfection is not possible, but this is deceptively close. Close enough to take his breath away.

"I did not get an opportunity to say goodbye," he tells her.

She moves closer to him. "Your mother loved you very much, Spock."

"I did not save her. I tried and failed to properly calculate the collapse of the rock. I should have reacted sooner, I should have made the proper calculations, I should have--" His words burst forth and he can't stop them, they are illogical and a poor demonstration of a proper Vulcan, but he cannot stop them, cannot stop blaming himself.

She turns around and stops his outburst with her lips, kissing him desperately, passionately, with more love than he has ever known. It's remarkable, how powerfully he feels at the moment. He is in control, is always in control, but he questions that very assumption about himself as the kiss Nyota offers him and grief he feels threaten to split him in two. She is the one to end it, however, wiping a tear away that he had not known was there.

"It is illogical to think that way, Spock," she tells him with a small smile. She says it without censure, without implication that he is less Vulcan than he should be. She means to make him smile, to make him see how foolish it is to blame himself.

He feels exhausted.

He wakes up alone.

At first he is unfamiliar with his surroundings. The sheets he has slept in are not his, these are softer and smell different. They smell like jasmine and spice, like Nyota.

He remembers last night, his pain and her absolution. The hole is smaller now, though it is still there. It will always be there, he thinks, the place where his mother used to be.

He hears the sounds of water running. She is taking a shower. He should leave before she comes out; it would be improper to be in her quarters while she is dressing, though there is the probability that she will dress in her bathroom and be presentable when she comes out. She would be angry with him if he left right now. She will have questions, because she is Nyota and she always has questions, and he should assure her of his wellbeing. It is only proper. And logical.

He looks around him. His shirt is still on the chair and he notices that she has books, actual printed, bound books on a table next to the table. Curiosity overtakes him and he goes to look. One is a book of the United States of Africa history, another stories in what he surmises to be Swahili, the language of her parents. The third and final book is one he is surprised to find, yet pleased to as well. It is Vulcan poetry written by a poet that every Vulcan knew and admired. His mother had given him the book when he had graduated from Starfleet, remarking that she thought Spock was like Vulcan poetry--the perfect combination of Vulcan culture and human passion. He had accepted the gift politely but never saw the analogy. He was a humanoid and thus not a form of literature. He gave it to Nyota because she liked it, because she would run her fingers over the cover and read it over and over again when she was his aide, and he always hoped, however illogically, that she had seen what his mother had seen.

"Good morning." She startles him. She isn't properly dressed, like he was expecting. She is wearing a Starfleet bathrobe, her hair still wet from the shower.

"Good morning, Nyota. My apologies for intruding on your personal possessions."

She smiles. "Spock, how many times have I looked through the books in your office? I think you've earned the right to browse my books."

"I was curious why you considered a book of history, a book of stories, and a book of poetry to be among your necessities."

"Because the three most important people in my life gave me those books."

Spock raises his eyebrow.

"My father gave me the book of African history to remind me of where I came from. My mother gave me the book of stories to remind me of her, she used to read them to me every night. You gave me the book of Vulcan poetry."

He notices that she does not include a reason like she does for her parents. Does she not know? Is she unaware of his regard for her?

He is about to ask her--he thinks they have progressed sufficiently enough in their relationship that he may ask her questions like that--when he turns to see her getting dressed. She is fiddling with the clasp of her bra, clad in only her underwear. The room is suddenly much warmer than he would prefer, the air suddenly too thick. He cannot remember what he was going to say, if he was going to say anything at all. All he can think of is the slope of her back, the angle of her shoulders. The passion that he always feels when he is around her roars to life with such vivacity that it startles him. She pulls up her skirt, tugs on her sweater and he mourns the loss of the sight of her skin. He misses it, wants to see it some more. She moves to the other side of the room where there is a small table with a mirror and proceeds to brush her hair, applying a small amount of makeup. He is fascinated by her ritual. He remembered as a boy watching his mother get ready for events at the Embassy on Vulcan, making her describe what she was doing and why. Nyota mimicked many of his mother's motions, brushing her hair, applying a little make-up, putting on the earrings that she favored. The memory was laced with pain, with regret, making him wish that he had tried harder, had been faster in reacting, had saved her somehow, someway, but the memory also held a level of fondness for him. It was a good memory. One to replace the bad that haunted him.

He watches as she pulles her hair up into her ubiquitous ponytail, as she tugs on her uniform to make sure it was just so. She goes to zip up her boots.

"Allow me," he murmurs.

She enjoyed this, he had noted in an earlier experience. Her heart rate increases and her pupils dilate when he zips up her boots, allowing his fingers to trail along her skin, appreciating her beauty.

"Thank you," she murmurs when he finishes, bending to kiss him.

"We're going to be late," he says, breaking the kiss.

She groans. "I know, you're right."

"Of course I am. I have no reason to provide you with false information," he says as he goes to retrieve his shirt from its place on the chair. He puts it on, swearing that he hears Nyota sigh as he does so. When he looks at her she is picking up a PADD from next to her books with no indication that she has made any noise at all.

"Ready to go?" she asks him.

He nods. "Let us go meet the Captain for breakfast."


	2. Chapter 2

He doesn't quite get them.

Surely, Kirk thinks, the girl he met in that bar in Iowa with the ability to down shots of Jack, would be too much for a Vulcan, even a half-Vulcan. Then he comes to the realization, sometime between seeing them kiss and now, that they are probably perfect for each other, if he thought about it enough. They're both practically geniuses, both take things way too seriously, and he would imagine that they would both rather argue the finer points of xenolinguistics than have a drink. Still, a part of him thinks that Uhura is too much for Spock and though he would never say anything to anyone, since Spock practically admitted that he was in love with Uhura, he doesn't think that Uhura is too much for _him_. Of course, just thinking that is probably enough to get that Vulcan to start choking him again, and Kirk still has the bruises to prove that Spock is stronger than he looks.

He watches as they enter the mess together, looking perfectly professional. She glances at him on occasion, as if to make sure he's okay, but he just stares straight ahead. It goes against every rule in the book, the geek getting the girl, but he can't help but smile at them when he sees them.

"Captain," Spock greets him as they approach his table.

" G'morning Spock, Uhura. I trust you slept well?" Kirk asks suggestively with a wink, unable to help himself.

He chuckles at Uhura's blush and subsequent huff at his insolence. Spock looks impassive as ever.

"I am sorry, Captain, I am afraid I do not understand the humor in such a personal inquiry."

"The Captain is suggesting that we didn't actually sleep last night, Spock," Uhura tries to explain.

Kirk's grin grows wider as Spock's confusion becomes more evident. "But why would he ask if we slept well if what he was suggesting was that we weren't sleeping at all?"

Uhura sighs. "I'll explain later, Spock. Let's go get some food."

Kirk chuckles to himself as he watches the two leave. For a genius, Spock could be an idiot.

"Were you harassing those two kids again, Jim?" Bones asks him.

"Not more than usual," Kirk replies, going back to the daily reports on his PADD.

"Uhura's gonna kick your ass one day and only the Hippocratic oath is going to get me to heal you," Bones tells him.

"I can handle her."

Bones snorts. "You haven't seen her in a temper. Believe me, I have, and it's not a pretty sight. Last guy who thought he could handle her ended up with internal bleeding, a broken leg, a black eye, and a broken wrist."

Kirk lets out a whistle. "Damn. Feisty. I think I like her even more."

"Remember, Jim, she's Spock's girl," Bones says in a low voice as the two approach the table where the senior officers sit, or what Kirk refers to as "the cool kids table". Kirk watches with interest as they sit down, hoping that they would do something...coupley, but they are the very picture of professionalism. They sit close to each other, but not too close to draw attention. Uhura starts to read a PADD she carried in with her, eating some cereal as she reads.

"I trust there is nothing in the reports to indicate a problem, Captain?" Spock asks, motioning with his hand towards the PADDs lying on the table.

"Nope. Everything's great. Kind of boring, really."

Spock raises his eyebrow. "Life on board a ship is not always full of adventure, Captain. You cannot expect every day to be filled with fighting Klingons and saving damsels in distress."

Kirk grins. "Why not?"

"Starfleet has a peace keeping mission, Captain. It is not in the interest of the Federation to go around fighting without provocation."

"You're no fun, Spock," Kirk says jovially. "I, for one, want some adventure."

Uhura rolls her eyes over her PADD, reading the latest xenolinguistics journal. "Riolozhikaik kren'ath," she mutters.

Spock's eyes widen. "Nyota!"

"What? What'd she say?" Kirk asks.

Spock looks torn, or as torn as a Vulcan could look, Kirk thought. Whatever it was that Uhura called him, it had to have been bad.

"Spock, as Captain of the Enterprise, I command you to tell me what Lieutenant Uhura said."

It was cruel, to be sure, to order him to translate, Kirk thinks, and for a second he contemplates resending his order, but whatever it was that she said got a rise out of Spock and Kirk wants to know what it is.

"I called you an illogical bastard, Captain," Uhura tells him, without any repentance.

Kirk chokes back a laugh. "That was the best you could do in Vulcan? Wow, Lieutenant. I was hoping for something more colorful."

"Captain, on Vulcan," Spock pauses, before continuing. "For Vulcans, being called illogical and having their legitimacy questioned is highly insulting."

Kirk feels low, reminding Spock that he is without a home, that Vulcan as it was, as he remembers it, does not exist. Part of him wants to end the conversation right then and there, but Uhura isn't about to let it go.

"With all due respect, Captain, we have just endured the Battle of Vulcan, watched a founding member of the Federation be annihilated into a black hole," she looks at Spock before continuing. He gives her a small nod before she does, as if he is allow her to. "And you want more? The Federation is now experiencing problems with Romulus and it is more than likely we will enter a war with the Romulans. Thousands of our classmates at the Academy are gone, Captain. And you want _more?"_

Uhura blinks and it is as if she has suddenly remembered herself. "My apologies, Captain. That was out of line."

Kirk nods, acknowledging her apology. The battle was has hard on everyone, including him.

"I understand, Lieutenant." He clears his throat, hoping to clear the blanket of awkward silence that had befallen the table. "I'll see everyone on the bridge in thirty minutes."

He walks away to the bridge, listening to Uhura and Spock converse in rapid Vulcan as he departs the mess. He had hoped that the couple of weeks of leave they had had would have been enough to let them recoup, to start the healing process, but he would be wise to remember that it wasn't just his First Officer who had lost something. They had all lost a roommate, or a study group, or a friend. They had a lot ahead of them, a lot of healing, a lot of grieving, a lot of repercussions still being discussed in Federation Summits.

He nods to various officers as they stand at attention, noticing his presence on the bridge. He has too much on his mind, too much to mull over to really pay attention to the low murmurs of the crew, the faint hum of the machines. He slumps in his captain's chair. The first time he sat in it he had felt such a thrill, such a sense of purpose. He still felt that way, still felt that he was meant to be here, meant to be Captain James T. Kirk.

Now he just had to figure out how to do it.

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Humans never fail to surprise him.

Her utterance of such an uncouth phrase, the strongest epithet one can use in Vulcan, shocks him. He assumed that she would be completely fluent in Vulcan and yes, that would logically mean knowing the less than courteous words in his language. But to hear her say them, and to the _Captain_...

He wishes he had the ability to do so. To tell Kirk that he is being an idiot. He always wished he had that ability, from wishing to vocalize his hate toward the bullies at school, to telling the Vulcan Science Academy Panel they were a bunch of snobbish fools, to giving the more unruly students in his classes a piece of his mind. He was never able to. He speaks a variety of languages, a startling number of dialects with fluency, but cannot vocalize the words he wishes to say the most. It is frustrating, but he appreciates the irony, finding amusement in such a predicament.

Kirk shows them compassion. He acknowledges Nyota's apology, understands her motivations, and moves on. It is why he is Captain and Spock is not. He comprehends, but what's more, he understands and accepts. He sees past the insubordination to the hurt and anger and helplessness that they all feel. Spock may be able to speak a gaggle of languages, be able to do complex calculations in his head, but he will never be a man like James Kirk.

It angers him.

This is not like the anger for Nero, not nearly as consuming. No, this is a slow burning fire, Spock realizes. He has to be careful. Kirk is to be his friend and has the capacity to be so, Spock sees. But he is angered. He is angered by his own limitations, by Kirk's potential for greatness, by Kirk's humanity and the glaring fact that it is something Spock lacks.

Nyota is apologizing to him in Vulcan, telling him that she is not sure what came over her. Her words are tripping over themselves as she tries to reach him, as she tries to absolve her insubordination.

"It is alright, Nyota," he tells her quietly. "We will speak of it later."

She thinks he is angry with her, he can see that. She bites her lip and looks at him like she is frightened. He wishes that he could reach out to her, tell her that the anger he feels, that she can see, is not directed at her. He wishes that he could make her pain go away, that he could be strong for her, just as she is strong for him. He should protect her. He should be able to make everything that gives pain go away. He cannot; instead he tells her that they "will speak of it later" and he sounds just like his father. This situation logically calls for comfort and instead he offers her ice.

FYI-I made Uhura, Spock, Bones, etc. senior officers. I'm not sure if they would be-I think they were in TOS but since JJ Abrams has so cleverly liberated himself from canon, I wasn't sure if that was still the case, or if I could just make it writer's prerogative. And if I didn't have a Vulcan dictionary bookmarked on Firefox I'd probably die. Just saying.

I think that's it...I hope I was able to clear up the confusion and add some necessary detail and above all, I hope you enjoyed it.


	3. Chapter 3

Wow, you like me, you really like me! Many, many thanks to all who took the time to review-you make me smile. I would especially like to thank AtanaM who so nicely pointed out a small discrepancy in the first chapter because that took a really good eye.

And, as always, my beta, mhgood, is a fantastically wonderful person.

Nyota Uhura does not want Prince Charming. She does not want some fairy tale where she waits in a tower for some James Kirk to come on a stupid horse and "save her." She doesn't need saving, she doesn't want some pretty-boy thinking that she didn't know what she wanted.

She knows exactly what she wants, she always knows exactly what she wants.

She wants Spock.

She had fallen in love with him slowly. They had gone out to dinner after spending the afternoon researching. Spock had realized that he had kept her from dinner and insisted on making up for it by taking her out. He insisted that it was customary among human colleagues and she didn't have the heart to refuse him. After a fantastic Thai dinner and lengthy conversation about Romulan dialects, he had walked her back to her dormitory, and, when she turned to thank him, she hadn't realized how close he was. He had smelled of rain and patchouli and his eyes were darker than they normally were, suddenly so much more expressive than he let them be. She had forgotten what she was going to say, had forgotten how to make her mouth formulate words. She thought nothing and felt everything, all in a moment that lasted seconds. He had cleared his throat, bid her good night and walked away.

The next day she kissed him for the first time.

Now there is a sickening feeling in her stomach, the very same feeling she felt as a child when she knew that her parents were going to punish her.

"_We'll speak of it later."_

He would quote regulations at her, tell her that if it were any other captain, she would be court martialed. He would remind her that it was logical to simply ignore the Captain and that her outburst was unbecoming.

She blushes with shame, looking at her cereal. She loses her appetite, now just pushing around the cereal in her bowl as she steals glances at Spock. She tries so hard, so hard to understand, to be logical and Vulcan, and ultimately fails miserably. She tries to stand up for her...what is he, exactly? Boyfriend? Lover? Friend with benefits?

Things happened so fast. They just took it one day at a time when she was still a cadet and then all of a sudden she became a Lieutenant, and...now she was sitting on the _Enterprise_, pushing around cereal after calling the Captain the most dama Vulcan language insult in the universe.

It isn't going to be a good day.

She gets up, mumbling something about going to the bridge, not waiting to hear what the others have to say. She puts her tray away, walking out of the mess and to the bridge.

Kirk is talking to Chekov when she goes to her console, not even looking at Spock when he walks past her. She can't. She has to work now, will be on duty for the next ten hours. She can't think about him right now.

There is silence in space today. It would be disconcerting if they weren't in one of the more remote parts of the Federation, making a routine patrol to ensure the safety of the Federation Worlds. She wishes there were something, anything, to distract her from the man sitting a few feet away from her. She can feel his glances; shocks run up her spine and she desperately wants to go over to him, to make sure that things are okay between them.

Oddly enough, Kirk is more quiet than he usually is, and Nyota almost misses his chatter, his madcap questions to Chekov and Sulu, his provocations to Spock.

Instead they sit in awkward silence, only talking when they needed to, every word pertaining to their jobs and the _Enterprise_.

It is unbelievably painful.

She is amazingly grateful when her shift is over. The most exciting communique she intercepted was a transmission of an Orion starship alerting the ___Enterprise_ of its presence.

She goes back to her quarters after Kirk relieves her of her duties for the day. She sighs once she hears the door ping behind her and she's able to take her hair down and take off her boots. If Spock wants to talk to her, then he's going to have to come to her. Tonight is a night for a Cardassian sunrise, she thinks as she rubs her temples. She almost hopes that he doesn't come to her, that he just stays away, but she hates the thought of prolonging this more than she hates the thought of arguing with him.

It's not supposed to be easy, she knows this. She knew that the moment she kissed him. He is a half-Vulcan and she is going to have to accept it. She understands this, she accepts this, but she is so tired of swallowing, so tired of nodding her head and accepting the things he can't give her, can't say to her, and feeling terrible because sometimes she just wants him to press her up against the wall of the turbolift and kiss her senseless. She wants to hear _I love you_ in every language he knows and she wants to know what she is to him, if anything.

She falls asleep waiting for him.

She thinks it's a dream when she wakes to him kissing her.

It's never felt like this--barely restrained, as if he were about to lose control at any moment.

"Nyota," he whispers, his hands everywhere, leaving her wanting.

She moans, hating herself for being so weak that she can't shove him and demand to know where they stand, but wants this to continue, wants to stop thinking and feeling and being long enough to feel free. He does this to her, he's always done this to her and she wants it, just as she always does.

She trails her fingers along his face, tracing his ears. "Spock."

"You were angry today."

He continues to kiss her and touch her and it's distinctly unfair that he can form coherent sentences when she's left senseless.

"Yes," she says.

"At me?"

She removes his hands. This has to be said, she can't be distracted. "At myself, Spock. I was angry at myself for my outburst."

He shook his head in disagreement. "You should not harbor anger towards yourself. Kirk was being deliberately combative. Your response was natural. I apologize if my behavior indicated that I disapproved of your actions."

It's such a Spock thing to say that she smiles, but her smile doesn't last. It dies as she remembers there is something else she needs to say, that she needs to ask him before they move past this.

"Spock, how do you feel about me?"

He considers the question like he's never truly thought about it before. "I--" he stops himself. "I find--" he halts again. "Aren't my attentions adequate demonstrations of my feelings, Nyota?" he asks in a small voice.

She feels like the world's biggest bitch. She knows he can't say the words. Spock is an amazing xenolinugist himself, but he is also Vulcan. They aren't bonded, and she can't expect him to say those words to her.

He does care for her, in his own way. He does kiss her, paying so much attention to what pleases her. He came to her last night when he was upset.

She closes her eyes, taking a deep breath before she starts to cry. "I'm sorry, Spock, that was unfair."

He shakes his head. "It is customary on Earth that when one enters a relationship there is a reciprocation of words. You wish to hear my intentions towards you."

It's so clinical that she wants to make him stop. She doesn't want it this way. She thought she wanted the words, but she realizes how true the adage 'be careful what you wish for' is.

"Nyota," he takes a deep breath. He is just as nervous as she is, she realizes. She is amused, slightly, by the thought of Spock being anything but calm. He moves to the chair, as if he needs the space between them, just as much as she needed him not to touch her in order to form a coherent sentence. He looks down at his hands and she waits.

"I am...not adept at declaring myself. I find your company pleasurable, even soothing. I enjoy kissing you, I enjoy talking with you. I consider you my intellectual equal, and you make me realize..."

She holds her breath, has been doing so since he started talking. Breathing seems unnecessary at the moment, a demonstration of this suspension in time as he chooses his words.

"You make me realize that some emotions are good to feel."

It's not "I love you," and Spock is not a Prince Charming on a white horse.

But Nyota Uhura doesn't want Prince Charming, nor does she want a white horse, and Spock's words are enough to make her cry.

There is a slight crease in his eyebrows and his eyes search her, hoping to understand. "You're crying."

"I'm happy, Spock. That is the most beautiful thing anyone has ever said to me."

She gets up from the bed, going over to him and sitting on his lap. It surprises him, his eyebrows are raised, but she doesn't care. She needs to be close to him, needs him to hold her, to hear that things are going to be alright now.

"I love you too," she tells him simply. He kisses the top of her head in response.

"Stay here tonight," she whispers.

"That would be most agreeable," he tells her.

She is asleep when he carries her over to the bed, climbing in with her.


	4. Chapter 4

**Mhgood is a magician, especially when it comes to verb tenses. Many thanks to her ever vigilant work and many thanks to Elizawriter for being a sounding board for my plot ideas. Both are amazing, amazing people.**

Spock is intrigued by how the crew views Nyota. They treat her with the amount of respect deserving of a lieutenant and an expert in xenolinguistics, yet there is still a certain amount of affection they demonstrate towards her. Ensigns Sulu and Chekov admire her, not only for her beauty, but for her intelligence. She has spoken with both about the prevalence of regional languages and dialects in Federation Standard on Earth, even learning some Russian from Chekov. The boy--a man, Spock reminds himself, even if he is seventeen--thinks Nyota is pretty, even told her so in Russian, yet Spock doesn't feel the same annoyance that he feels when Kirk takes note of Nyota's physical attributes. Nyota laughs when he explains this to her.

"Why, Spock, are you admitting to jealousy?"

"Jealousy is illogical, Nyota, and an indication of a problem within our own relationship. I am merely observing a discrepancy in my responses to similar experiences."

She smiles as if she knows something he doesn't--something he finds illogical as well as unlikely.

"Chekov is sweet. He sees me like a big sister," she explains. "Kirk," she makes a face, "clearly should be stranded on Orion."

His lips quirk in a smile only she is allowed to see."I believe he would find that much to his satisfaction."

Nyota rolled her eyes. "And that's why you don't have to be jealous, Spock."

He nods, still not quite understanding. He knows, rationally, that he shouldn't be jealous. Nyota has made her opinions on Jim Kirk quite clear, and while the ensigns clearly enjoy her company, Spock would like to think that he can please her more than two boys.

Even as a half-Vulcan.

He asks her one night over tea in his quarters to explain what she meant by "as a sister."

She looks at him questioningly until she remembers, her face brightening. "Oh, you mean Chekov and Sulu."

"Yes."

"Some people express affection towards people in a platonic manner. Humans call it loving someone like a brother, or a sister. I love Chekov and Sulu like they were my brothers. They kind of remind me of my brothers--both wicked smart and in desperate need of direction. Can you imagine what they would be like if they were left to their own devices?" She laughs.

He nods. "Is this why Dr. McCoy does not refer to you as Lieutenant?"

Uhura nods. "He's from the Southern region of the United States, where it is common to refer to people by nicknames, or pet names."

"So I should not consider it an...advance upon your person when he refers to you as 'hon'."

"No, it's just his way. He's more like an uncle to me anyway."

Spock thinks this over, fascinated by this new facet of relationships on the ship.

"You need to understand, Spock. There are very few female officers, especially on the _Enterprise_. I'm a Senior Officer at that. People are going to treat me differently."

"Why? You are a lieutenant, just as they are. Do you not earn the same respect?"

She smiles. "I love you, Spock."


	5. Chapter 5

**This chapter wouldn't be nearly as long if it wasn't for Mhgood, who encouraged me to add to it. Also, you should thank her for fixing the ending, otherwise I would have done weird things with physics. She is truly an awesome beta.**

There is a certain thrill to discovering languages, akin to completing a puzzle. Nyota loves the intricacies, the nuances of language, the very way philosophies are expressed within a single word or phrase.

Most within the Federation speak Standard, though each planet still keeps its own language--Vulcan, Orion, Romulan being among them. There are variations by planet, but she is able to translate without severe difficulty. Languages come as easily to Nyota Uhura as flying does to birds, something completely second nature, completely instinctual and graceful that Spock believes to be beautiful.

Every once in a while, there are some difficulties. She had come across some interesting syllable stresses in her research on Romulan syntax, stresses that had the potential to completely change the meaning on a word. There is nothing ever completely new, however. Nothing to ever make her pause.

Until today.

Kirk is once again trying to convince Spock to play Three-Dimensional Chess with him, in the hopes that he would beat Spock. They are still out in a remote quadrant of the Federation, and Nyota wonders how long until the end of duty, how much silence one could take before going crazy.

Then she picks up the signal.

Vulcan is not an emotional language. While it has its words of endearment, even its words of passion, it is not a language one can properly say with inflection, not without butchering the language.

Yet Nyota is certain that this is Vulcan, just spoken by passionate people. The cadence is faster, not the serene rhythm of Spock. There is so much inflection, so much feeling in these words that she almost doubts that the words that she is hearing are Vulcan. She is, however, certain of her abilities and of her teachings from the Academy. Despite the inflection, despite the rhythm, these words, if she were to write them down, would be Vulcan. She asks Spock, just to be sure.

"Commander? A word?"

He raises his eyebrow just a fraction of an inch, surprised by Nyota's request.

"Yes, Lieutenant?"

She hands him the ear piece, telling him to listen. He does, his lips pursing as he does so.

"Your thoughts, Lieutenant?" he asks quietly.

"I believe it to be Vulcan, spoken by individuals who do not follow the path of Surak."

He nods, once. "Your assumptions are valid. Captain, a word?"

"No, I won't let you and Uhura off duty for some afternoon delight."

McCoy groans. "Jesus, Jim. That was pathetic."

Kirk starts humming a few bars of "Afternoon Delight."

"Captain?" Spock reminds him.

"Oh yeah. You were saying something?"

"Lieutenant Uhura has received a transmission from what I believe to be a Vulcan society on Planet A-75, a random subspace message from the planet not directed at us."

Kirk raises his eyebrow. "Okay, my curiosity is piqued. So I'm guessing you want to check it out?"

"I find that to be the most advisable course of action, yes."

"Sounds good. Let's check out this Vulcan colony. There's a chance they don't know yet about Vulcan. I hate being the bearer of bad news, but they should know, they should be a part of the planning of new Vulcan."

"I wholly agree, Captain."

"Excellent," Kirk says brightly. "Uhura, contact this planet, make sure that we will be welcome. I don't really want to start an intergalactic war."

"Captain, I am unfamiliar with this dialect of Vulcan," it pains her to admit this, that there's something that she doesn't know and she has to say this to Kirk, of all people.

Kirk raised his eyebrow. "A dialect of Vulcan you're unfamiliar with? I don't know whether to be impressed or worried."

"I can try to use Federation Standard."

"We would be well within regulations to do so, Captain. It is merely a diplomatic courtesy to use the native tongue of a planet," Spock says to him, refraining from citing the specific regulation. Jim wouldn't listen, anyway.

Uhura sends out a transmission requesting to meet with the Vulcan society, stating that they were the USS _Enterprise_ of the Federation Starfleet.

She waits for their message back, thinking of how this is like when she was in grade school, passing notes with her friends when teachers couldn't see. She wonders if this is how real diplomacy is done--just passing notes back and forth like a bunch of grade school girls. It seems so trivial, so insipid, that she has her doubts, but here she is, actually putting forth these communiques.

She looks over at Spock, wondering what he's thinking. It's not the first time she's ever thought this, but the possibility that they have found a society of Vulcans has to illicit some response from him, some feelings that he's kept buried since the battle of Vulcan. She purses her lips in an unconscious mirror image of Spock, one of the many mannerisms she's picked up from him, wondering how to bring it up when she sees him tonight, not wanting to overstep the carefully drawn line.

_We recognize the USS _Enterprise_ as a peacekeeping vessel and welcome it on our planet. We request the Captain take a shuttle and meet with our Head of State at the earliest convenience of the USS __Enterprise._

The message is terse by any other standard, but these are Vulcans, a race not known for its verbosity. Uhura gives the message to Kirk, who nods, instructing Sulu to enter warp speed. They soon see the planet and they are amazed how similar it is to Vulcan-a desert planet of russet and amber, the atmosphere swirling the colors around in a beautiful haze. Chekov tells them that the atmosphere is similar enough to Earth to not warrant suiting up, though it is approximately seven degrees warmer than their home planet. It is classified as an uninhabited planet, a fact that is met with a snort from Kirk.

"Looks like Starfleet needs to update its information."

"Does it have a name?" Bones asks.

Spock looks at him as if he is a particularly dense child. "Doctor, I have already identified this planet as A-75."

Bones rolls his eyes and Uhura swears she hears him mutter "insufferable goblin" under his breath. "I meant like Jupiter or Venus or Saturn."

"No, it does not have a common name, as it is an uninhabited planet. There is no need for a moniker based on human mythology."

"We're nearing the planet, Captain," Sulu interrupts. They look on viewscreen as they enter the orbit of the supposedly uninhabited planet.

A-75 takes Uhura's breath away, the beauty of it, the colors so vivid that she almost doesn't believe they are real. Everyone is quiet, just basking in the beauty of this planet. They are surrounded by stars and nebulae and brilliant bursts of color all the time, but this planet is more arresting, more beautiful than all the stars combined. Uhura looks over at Spock, wondering what he must think, if this is what Vulcan was like. She wishes she could walk over to him, just a couple of steps, take his hand and assure him that it will be okay. He looks stoic, as he always does, assessing the situation with a scientist's eye.

The planet becomes bigger, they have entered the orbit and it's time for Kirk to depart for the shuttle.

"Finally," Jim mutters. "Something exciting."


	6. Chapter 6

**Oh my, I almost forgot! Mhgood saved you guys from magical shifting tenses and also taught me something new about science-this time it was about atmosphere. As always, she is amazing. NB: I was a terrible science student. I love the irony that I enjoy science fiction. **

This planet reminds him of home.

Kirk requests his presence when they meet with the Head of State, because of his Vulcan heritage. Spock sees it in Uhura's eyes, she wished to go but what use is she when the Captain and the half-Vulcan are there? He wishes that he could request her presence, if just to reassure him that his entire world wasn't going to implode again.

She stays, though, she stays while he goes.

Kirk puts a hand on his shoulder. "I can ask her, Spock," he says quietly.

He can't bring himself to answer Kirk's unspoken question, doesn't say anything except stare straight ahead and wonder if he's going to be able to compartmentalize himself, be able to handle himself. It hasn't been long since Vulcan and while he is able to remain calm, he is not his father, not an ambassador, not a man who is able to say the pretty words needed to make friends and influence people. They are Vulcans, a proud race still unwilling to accept him and his half-humanity, despite their depleting numbers. His very presence could stall negotiations.

"Captain," he says calmly, not letting his emotions betray him, "I should remind you that as a half-Vulcan, I might not be accepted on this planet. Many Vulcans are not accepting towards my mixed heritage. Such a viewpoint could hinder our meeting."

Kirk nods, understanding the meaning behind Spock's stiff words. "Uhura comes with us then. I bet she's biting at the bit to hear more of this dialect of Vulcan, anyway. Uhura?"

"Yes, Captain?"

"You're coming with us. Lieutenant Anderson will take over."

She raises both of her eyebrows in surprise. "But Captain, Commander Spock certainly knows more about Vulcans than I do, my presence isn't necessary. Possibly a hindrance."

Kirk feigns shock. "You're giving up the opportunity to learn more about this dialect?"

"No, it's not that-"

"Then stop copying your boyfriend's speech patterns and get on the shuttle with us."

She looks at him for a split second longer before nodding and getting up to follow Kirk and Spock.

"Thank you," Spock tells Kirk quietly.

"Don't mention it," he replies. "This planet," he continues, "is it like Vulcan?"

"I do not know, Captain."

They board the shuttle, which takes them from the _Enterprise_ to A-75. Spock keeps Kirk's question in mind as they travel, making note of the atmospheric pressure, the gravity, the climate. A-75 is an arid planet, one of very little water. The gravity is not as high as Vulcan's is...was. He knows, logically, that his planet is gone, yet he finds he concept of referring to Vulcan in the imperfect tense to be difficult in practice. A-75's gravity is approximately that of Earth's. He is confused by the atmosphere, Vulcans can survive in a much higher atmospheric pressure than humans, yet A-75's atmospheric pressure seems to be a medium between the two planets. Not as high as Vulcans, but not nearly as low as Earth's.

"What are you thinking?" Nyota asks him in Vulcan.

They both know that Kirk understands maybe five words in Vulcan, it's safe to talk in Spock's native language.

"The atmospheric pressure-it's...odd."

Her lips quirk. "Odd?"

"Unusual. It is not as high as Vulcan's, nor as low as Earth's."

Nyota thinks for a minute. "It's like the mountains on Earth. It is high enough for humans to feel it, but they can adapt quickly to it."

He nods, slowly, understanding.

He feels her eyes on him, she's trying to translate him, like he is a particularly difficult transmission she's received. He wishes that he could offer her some kind of reassurance, but after the battle, after trying to explain to his father why he chose to stay on the _Enterprise _and both of them unable to see the other's viewpoint, he is unsure if there is such a thing as reassurance.

They land on the planet. He visited the Earth region known as the Middle East, once. This planet reminds him of that region, a region of sweeping deserts that contrasted sharply against the sky. There are mountains made out of sand, seeming to go on forever. The heat isn't oppressive, not by his standards, but by the look of discomfort on Kirk's and Uhura's faces, it is hot to humans.

"So, what do we do now?" Kirk asks.

"We wait," Spock tells him. "They will have seen our shuttle and will meet with us."

"Yeah, I don't know if I feel like waiting."

Uhura rolls her eyes. "The fate of Earth-Vulcan relations lies in your hands? Frightening."

"It would be advisable to stay here, Captain."

Kirk looks around him, realizing the daunting task of wondering around the desert and remembering wandering around the ice planet Spock marooned him on.

"Fine."

A hovercraft soon appears. Three men step out, dressed in white robes, making their onyx eyes and hair stand out even more. Elaborate chainmail belts are around their waists, elaborate, ceremonial swords tucked between the robes and the belt. Somehow, Kirk gets the feeling that those ceremonial swords could still do a lot of damage. Uhura recognizes the chainmail to be in the Byzantine pattern, a fact she knew from a book on medieval knights her brothers poured over when they were younger.

"You are from the _Enterprise_." It isn't a question, spoken in Federation Standard.

"Yes," Kirk replies. "We wish to speak to your Head of State. The Federation has news concerning Vulcan."

The men nod. "You will come with us."

They speed along the desert, their Vulcan companions silent. Spock finds memories of Vulcan coming unwittingly, memories of looking at the stars with his mother on the roof of their home, memories of reading ancient books in his father's library. He remembers his father teaching him three-dimensional chess, believing that it would teach him logic and strategy. He remembers his mother teaching him card games, because she believes that some games should be solely for fun. He remembers. He doesn't want to remember, not here, not now, he has the task of meeting this colony of Vulcans, the task of telling them that their planet is gone.

Having quadruple the amount of Spocks is a little terrifying for Kirk. Spock is slowly becoming more comfortable, but being in a hovercraft with four of them, all of them staring out the windows is just weird.

There isn't much difference between Spock and the Vulcans. His eyes are lighter and Kirk doesn't think it was possible, but they show more emotion. The Vulcans' eyes are like black holes, like being in a completely dark room and having the sensation of being swallowed whole. Their faces betray nothing, like Spock's, nothing to indicate what they are thinking or feeling. Kirk finds it disorienting-he relies on facial expressions and tone of voice to plan his actions. Spock would call it illogical, but it makes perfect sense to him. How could he plan when his opponent is nothing? This isn't his time to talk, however. Those swords look sharp. If he had known there were going to be swords, he would have brought Sulu.

Uhura wishes they would talk.

She is fascinated by the dialect she heard on the ship, it never occurred to her that Vulcan could be spoken so passionately, with so much abandon. She wonders what it would sound like if Spock spoke like that-the passion enough to make her toes curl, his voice like waves instead of the steady beat of a drum. Would these Vulcans be like the people Spock spoke of? Would they be stoic and cold? She can't believe that the people that spoke with such feeling would practice a philosophy that required no displays of emotion.

They come to city that seemed to have no rhyme nor reason to its planning. High on the mountain range that surrounded the city is a palace-a building made of the whitest of stone with domes of turquoise and gold. It is a beautiful building, a remarkable feat of architecture and profoundly opulent.

They fly past the city, straight for the mountain palace.

"Nice place," Kirk comments, unable to restrain himself. The Vulcans look at him with a flash of what Uhura swore is pride, before they turned their faces away.

They fly into the courtyard in the middle of the palace. It was huge when they flew to the city and it is gigantic as they step out of the hovercraft and into the courtyard. A thousand different scents meet Spock's nose; jasmine and rose and mint are the strongest, reminding him of his mother's garden.

"It's beautiful," Uhura murmurs.

It is pleasing to the senses, Spock thinks. There are more colors than there are words for them, flowers from every different galaxy. There are fountains that Spock realizes get their water source from underground. This courtyard is a symphony of senses, a seduction of indulgences. It is illogical. He is immediately put on guard, receiving confirmation what he believed, that these Vulcans did not follow the path of Surak. There is the very likely possibility that they would be extraordinarily violent, would be unable to see reason, logic.

And Uhura is here. He wanted her to be. He wanted her here with him without stopping to think of the consequences.

They had to leave right now.

He turns to Kirk, to tell him that he had made a horrible mistake, that Uhura had to get out of here at the earliest opportunity. Before he could open his mouth, a voice, a chilling, curling voice, calls from the opposite side of the courtyard.

"Captain Kirk, Lieutenant Uhura, Commander _Spock_. I don't believe we are acquainted."

A Vulcan, one of obvious wealth and rank comes up to them, wearing an embroidered robe of gold, sapphire and emerald.

"I am Sybok."


	7. Chapter 7

**Searching for the right word is probably the hardest thing a writer has to do. Thank gods for thesauruses! Thank gods also for betas, like mhgood and AtanaM who fix tenses and punctuation and remind me that you don't all exist in my head and thus can't see the movie like I can. I can't possibly thank you enough, but hopefully one day I'll get awfully close.**

**Oh, it would be really helpful if you think of Sybok as a Vulcanified Sylar. Just more of an author's note/request than anything else.**

The similarity is arresting.

Spock and Sybok are the same height, have the same aquiline nose, the same thin but well-toned body. They mimic each other's stances, consciously or unconsciously, Nyota isn't sure. Both are standing ramrod straight, their feet slightly part, their hands behind their backs, regarding each other with a small tilt of the head.

There are, however, subtle differences. Sybok's hair is longer and combed back, unlike that of traditional Vulcans, more like human hairstyles. His ears are slightly more pointed than Spock's, a property of his full Vulcan heritage. He would be considered a handsome man, Nyota thinks, if his eyes don't remind her of an abyss. She looks at them and sees nothing, almost as if he doesn't possess a soul.

"He looks _exactly _like Spock!" Kirk stage whispers.

Sybok smiles. The effect is chilling. This isn't a welcoming smile, but rather a predatory one, a smile the tiger gives the gazelle right before it pounces.

"Commander Spock and I are half-brothers, Captain Kirk. We share the same father, Ambassador Sarek."

Sybok says Spock and Sarek's names like a curse, growling as he says them. The _k_'s leave his mouth as if he is spitting out a terrible taste. His words are mundane, yet his intonation tells them everything they need to know. His eyes cast a glint, turning them to stone. His features sharpen, making him seem more of a predator, removing any doubt that he had the capacity to be a very dangerous man.

Then, like a summer storm that goes as quickly as it comes, his face clears.

"You are my guests! Come, we eat, then we talk. I look forward to meeting the brother I heard only tales of."

The panic wages a storm in Spock's chest, refusing to let go, to let him think logically. This man, Sybok, could hurt Nyota, could hurt Kirk. He wishes he could deny the fraternal link between them, but it is impossible to ignore. This man is his brother.

He's never had a brother before. Biologically, he shouldn't exist. His mother and father were advised strongly against trying to have another child; Spock's birth was a difficult one for Amanda Grayson, almost killing her because of the unique makeup of her son's blood. To try again would be illogical. His parents considered him a miracle, a possibility against probability and were content in their only child. Spock had often wished as a child he had someone like himself to confide in, to share experiences with. Eventually though he had accepted his unique existence in the world and ceased to wish for something that would not occur. It was illogical.

They are led by Sybok into the palace, the interior of which is no less extraordinary than the exterior. Brilliantly patterned carpets of maroon and lapis lazuli cushion their feet, while masterful works of art line the walls and entertain the eyes.

"This is a beautiful place, Mr...er" Kirk falters.

"Please, call me Sybok. I dine with only my friends and I insist my friends call me Sybok."

Kirk gives his most disarming smile. "Sybok. Call me Jim."

Sybok nods. "Thank you. I do so hate formalities. Especially when family is involved. I have heard that Captains and their crews can become quite close, families away from families, as it were. Since Spock serves as your First Officer, and he is my brother, I hope that you will consider me family...I believe the Earth old language term is de facto?"

Kirk shrugs. "I was never much for languages. You'll have to ask Uhura."

Sybok's eyes slide to her, slowly smirking as he looks her over, making her wish that Kirk hadn't mentioned her at all. "Of course. Lieutenant Uhura. Communications Officer."

There's a tension in the air. Kirk knows exactly what Sybok is doing and he can't believe he is watching it happen. The Vulcan is coming on to her-checking her out. God knows he's done it enough times just to Uhura to know. Sybok's playing with fire while drenched in gas. He has to break the tension, bring this meeting back to its original purpose.

"How is it that you know so much about us?" Kirk asked him.

"We are on a desert planet, Jim, not a backwards one. While we are not in the forefront of technological advancements, we are not the primitive planet you seem to think we are."

Kirk considers this before continuing. He was never very good at diplomacy-suddenly his classes at the Academy on the subject seemed so very far away and irrelevant. He had to keep from offending Sybok and potentially starting a war.

"You are a ways out, Sybok. You'll forgive our surprise that you should know so much about us?"

Sybok smiles again. The effect isn't nearly as chilling this time, Nyota thinks, though she wonders if that is because she is becoming used to the concept of smiles on Vulcans, or if there is genuine warmth in this smile.

"You are familiar with our language, yes, Lieutenant Uhura?" Sybok asks her in Vulcan.

She hears it again. She had a friend once, before she came to the Academy, whose mother forbade rock music because it was too suggestive, that the music was "fornication in music form." Nyota had never really understood, and both she and her friend had written off the mother's disapproval as being silly, if not downright outrageous.

Now she understands. The words are banal, an innocent question asked to be polite, but his intonation, the timbre of his voice, is fornication in verbal form.

She looks over to Spock, hoping that he noticed, that it wasn't just in her head. He remains impassive, but his subtle differences in body language assure her he has. He is tenser, his nostrils slightly flared, the hands he kept behind his back clenching and unclenching. Kirk notices Sybok's tone and Spock's reaction, too, his eyebrow slightly raises, the smirk that is perpetually on his face even more prominent.

She realized that the silence is longer than necessary. Clearing her throat, she answers in Vulcan, "Yes, I am fluent in Vulcan."

Something flashes in his eyes--a mixture of interest and desire and fascination. She suddenly feels like a brand new toy in the window of the toy store and Sybok the spoiled kid who decided that he must have her.

"Fascinating."

She swallows. Spock said there was the possibility of that these were Vulcans that did not follow the path of Surak, that instead followed, embraced their emotions. She was unsure if Vulcans like these still existed, if they could exist. The very reason Vulcans followed the path of Surak was because they had to, in order to survive. This is a colony, a city that had survived, even thrived. If they didn't follow the path of Surak, how had they managed to keep from killing themselves?

She needs to stop this train of thought before she freaked herself out. She is stronger than this. She has more than ample experience dealing with little boys thinking that she is a shiny new toy to play with at various bars.

"I studied xenolinguistics at Starfleet and became fluent in Vulcan, Klingon, Orion, and Romulan, among others."

Sybok raises his eyebrow and the realization of how much he is like Spock punches her in the stomach. "Then you are a human of a most superior intellect, Lieutenant Uhura."

She meets his gaze and smiles. "Thank you."

Nyota feels Spock before she sees him. He comes up behind her, his breath hot on her neck. He never stands close this closer to her out of his sense of propriety. He has thrown that notion out the window, Nyota thinks. He is inches away from her, his breath on her neck marking her as his. She glances back at him, wondering if his face will show any of the rage that his body is radiating, and she watches his lips thin, their usual fulness disappearing into a thin line.

She has to admit, she is intrigued by the thought. As irrational as it is, and as weirded as she is by Sybok, it thrills her, secretly, that Spock is jealous that someone else is interested in her. Yes, it's a little bit weird in a soap opera way that it's his half-brother, but the thought remains as a guilty-pleasure, a secret thrill that Spock's thinning of his lips, his breath hot on her neck was, for Spock, a blatant demonstration of his jealousy. She reminds herself to be careful, this situation could rapidly turn from awkward to dangerous with very serious consequences.

Sybok leads them into a dining hall lined with divan couches with low sitting tables, more like coffee tables.

"My friends, eat, drink, and be merry," Sybok says, clapping his hands once. Almost immediately, Vulcans arrive with trays of food--a meat that smells like lamb, rice, fruits that look like pomegrantes and apricots and mangoes, and vegetables that bore similarity to cucumbers and tomatoes. Uhura is surprised, Vulcans are traditionally vegetarians. In fact, she had yet to meet one that wasn't. She had read once that they believed red meat to heighten their aggression. It was taboo to prepare meat for consumption, practically forbidden. She doubts that this was all in the name of diplomacy.

He catches her staring at the meat. "I've never put much stock in meat causing the aggression in Vulcans. It always seemed more of an excuse than a theory."

"Are you a medical doctor, or perhaps a scientist, Sybok?" Spock asks dryly.

Sybok smirks. "No, brother, just a skeptical Vulcan."

Spock purses his lips ever so slightly.

"Jim, have you ever had Vulcan wine before? It can be quite potent, but taste is quite pleasing. Lieutenant Uhura? Would you care for some as well?"

There has never been an drink that Jim Kirk has said no to, and he isn't about to start with Vulcan wine. Uhura declines, requesting a non-alcoholic beverage instead. She feels that tonight she will need all of her facilities.

Sybok requests two glasses of wine and two cups of tea. Receiving them almost immediately, Sybok gives them their glasses and then raises his goblet in salute.

"To the future."

"To the future," Kirk repeats, Uhura murmurs, and Spock just acknowledges with a curt nod.

He gestures for them to sit. Kirk takes the couch next to Sybok, while Uhura sits next to Spock.

"How long have you had this colony, Sybok?" Kirk asks.

"Six years and seven months to the day," Sybok responds. He looks around him. "Happy Anniversary," he says to the palace, raising his glass again and taking a sip.

He is a weird guy, Kirk thinks. Eccentric. It's disorienting seeing a man who looks so much like Spock act so charismatically, be so free in his emotions and his facial expressions. Still, he kind of likes him. And now he's going to have to tell this guy that Vulcan was destroyed. This colony seemed like it could offer a good time, too...

Damn.

He coughs, clearing this throat. "Do you know about Vulcan, Sybok?"

"That it was destroyed? Yes, I am aware."

Sybok takes another sip of the wine, looking completely calm. "Is the food to your liking?"

"Our planet was destroyed and you inquire to our satisfaction concerning the food?" Spock voice has a bite to it, a sharpness that both Kirk and Uhura are unused to. They both watch as the brothers regard each other, challenging.

After a long pause, Sybok smiles. "Jim, Lieutenant, my brother and I have much more to discuss. I would like to personally invite to you to stay here as long as you like. Rooms will be made up for you. Spock, will you walk with me?"

Presented in question, it is certainly not a request. It is a command, one that Spock knows he cannot refuse.

He looks at Uhura, just for a brief moment. He doesn't want to leave her here, still wishes that he declined Kirk's offer. He can't explain this fear to himself, can't rationalize it nor apply it to the tenets of logic.

He follows Sybok into the courtyard. The sun has gone down, the air slightly more cool as a result, the perfume of the flowers even more thick. Sybok walks over to a bed of orchids.

"You are a child of two worlds, are you not, Spock?"

"I am."

"Like this orchid. I cultivated it from two others. I was told I couldn't, that I would be unsuccessful in creating this flower of beauty." He plucks the orchid, turning to his brother. "How many times were you told that, brother? That you should not exist? That you, as Vulcan-human, should not be alive?

"Bastards are not accepted on Vulcan. Well, what was Vulcan. My mother was called a whore, I always felt like I was on the outside looking in. As if everyone had been invited to a party that I was not privy to." He twirls the orchid in his hand. "You understand, don't you? You understand more than anyone. Vulcan was your home world, but they are not your people, are they Spock? So, you will have to understand if I am not weeping over the destruction of a planet of people who hated me."

Both men stand in silence for a while, absorbing Sybok's words, getting used to the idea of each other.

"Your friends will wonder where you are," Sybok tells him.

"You do not follow the path of Sarek," Spock says suddenly.

"I prefer to think of it as a modification of the path," Sybok responds. "We will discuss it tomorrow. Go, your friends will be waiting. Especially that lovely Lieutenant Uhura," Sybok grins.

Spock's eyes flash. "It would serve you well to remember that she is a Lieutenant of Starfleet."

Sybok's grin fades and he looks at his brother seriously. "Of course, Spock."

Spock doesn't see the glint in his eye and the smile on Sybok's face as he leaves.


	8. Chapter 8

**You know what's really annoying? Migraines. But you know what's really awesome? Betas who fix bizarre mistakes caused by migraines and who give me pushes and plot bunnies when I need them-shukran, AtanaM and mhgood! And thank you to everyone who has added this to their story alert or favorited it or both and an extra thank you to all of you who review-keep doing so. Reviews make my day!**

Spock goes back into the hallway when he realizes he has no idea where he is going. Presumably, Kirk and Nyota are in their respective rooms and, while it would be logical to conclude that there are rooms made up for him as well, he does not currently know the location of said rooms.

A Vulcan walks up to him, one that isn't of the wealth and rank of Sybok, based on his clothing. He stands a respectful distance away from Spock, enough to be heard, but enough to demonstrate the difference in their status. "_Osu?"_

He is unused to the title of "Sir," entirely used to the title of "Commander" now. He realizes that he prefers _Commander_ to _Osu_, prefers the hierarchal structure Starfleet to the ambiguity of Vulcan societal structure.

"Yes?"

"_Pudor-tor _Sybok has requested that I show you to your rooms. If you will follow me?"

He nods, mystified by these people. He was taught on Vulcan that, prior to Surak's teachings, the Vulcan race was tempestuous, willing to kill or be killed for anything. Why, then, would they observe hierarchal titles, like _Pudor-tor_ and _Osu_? It would be logical to assume they are in a state of perfect anarchy, giving and taking as they pleased, with no observance of leadership nor government. How did Sybok obtain the position of status that he has? Is there something more to him, something to suggest that he is keeping these Vulcans against their will, that it is only he who is not following the path of logic as opposed to the entire colony?

He has a headache. This is too much to take in, too much to process without a break for meditation. He follows the Vulcan, who explains that his rooms are next to the Captain's, while Lieutenant Uhura's are across the hall. He takes in this information, knowing that it will be useful later, but at the moment all he wants is to get to his rooms so he can meditate and make sense of the chaos around him. The Vulcan opens the door to his room, gesturing for Spock to enter first. It doesn't seem right to call the Vulcan showing him his room a servant, since he has no idea what kind of society this is, but Spock also doubts that the man is being compensated for his services. He walks in, unused to such decorated sleeping quarters compared to his quarters on the _Enterprise_. There is a four-poster bed in in the center, made out of a metal similar to Earth's iron. There is a sizable bookcase in a corner filled with printed books, a chaise lounge positioned for a nice reading area, a dresser on the opposite wall from the bookcase, and a desk across from the bed. Geometrically patterned carpets line the floor and the walls are a burnt orange.

"There are incense sticks for your meditation needs," the Vulcan tells him, gesturing to a intricately carved box placed on the shrine customary for Vulcan meditation. The shrine, next to the desk, is the only element of home, of the comfortable in the room, something so elegantly simplistic it made the rest of the room seem garish to Spock.

"If you require anything at all, there is a button on the table next to your bed that will inform the kitchen. They will see to your needs. There are robes in the dresser; _Pudor-tor _Sybok wishes for his guests to be comfortable at all times."

"Thank you," Spock says distractedly. He wishes he were back on the _Enterprise_, where he just had his double bed and small sitting area. This room is too large, too resplendent, too much.

"There is a door that connects to a bathroom. There are fresh towels and assorted soaps at your disposal."

Spock thanks him again, wondering if he is on a colony or perhaps on of those resorts that humans seem to enjoy so much.

The Vulcan bows, leaving him. Spock lets out a breath he was not aware he was holding. He sits cross-legged on the floor between the bed and the desk, closing his eyes, clearing his mind.

He tries to see the situation in his mind like a game of chess, but finds there are too many variables, too many unanswered questions. He tries to apply logic, finds it illogical to apply logic to a race so illogical. This isn't a game; this isn't a computer simulation, and for the first time in his life, he is unsure of how to proceed.

It frustrates him, confounds him. He is considered by all accounts a brilliant man. Even by Vulcan's high standards he is above average in intellect. Sybok is nothing but another puzzle, his colony an intriguing socio-political experiment. He is better than this, he is better than them and he will prove it.

His pride shames him. 'Better' has no quantifiable qualities; his use of it is merely a petulant statement brought out by his human side. He is no better nor worse than Sybok or these people. He simply is, as they simply are.

He takes a breath, trying to find the peace that he knows exists within himself. He can't find it. He is too distracted by his surroundings, the new smells that are so foreign to him in this world, the emphasis on sensory stimulation. He gets up, walks out of his room and across the hall to where the Vulcan said Nyota was. She has the unique ability to soothe him, to remind him of himself. He can't find a security keypad, or any device to request entrance into her quarters. There is simply a door and he has to think for a moment of what to do to request entrance.

He knocks.

There is no answer and he knocks harder, convinced that she hasn't heard him. He starts to panic, his human side whispering to him that she is with _him_, Sybok; that she has already forgotten about him. She isn't in her quarters at all, she is rather in _his_ and--

She opens the door. "Spock," she says, surprised. Her hair is wet and she's dressed in a scarlet robe that leaves nothing to the imagination. "I'm sorry, I didn't hear you knock. I decided to take a bath; the air is sucking the moisture out of my skin and I really didn't want to look like a mummy in the morning."

Suddenly he can't breathe, can't think; instead he wishes that she would stop talking because all he can do is stare at her. She is wreaking havoc on his control, tearing it down as if it were just a spider web instead of a carefully erected wall. This was a horrible idea. If anything, he has lost himself even more, is calculating the steps to her bed, wondering if she would mind if he ripped that robe off of her.

"My apologies, Lieutenant Uhura. I simply wished to inquire if you were settled into your quarters." His voice sounds rough, jagged, and he hopes that once they are off this planet he never has to see the cursed satellite ever again.

She frowns at the use of her professional name, the name he calls her only if there are others around, only if they are on the bridge. They aren't on the bridge, there aren't others around, and she wonders what happened to his use of _Nyota_.

"My quarters are beautiful, Spock. Is there anything wrong? Would you like to come in?" She wants him to talk, to tell her what he thinks about this brother he never knew he had; if he is as creepy as she thinks he is. She wants him to open up; she knows he can.

"No! No, that will not be necessary. I will see you in the morning, Lieutenant."

She looks hurt. He hates hurting her. He does it, sometimes, he knows, and what's more he sometimes doesn't know how to fix it. He has to get away from her, immediately, has to distance himself before he hurts her even more.

She searches his face and for a second he fears that she sees everything-his irrational jealousy, his overwhelming desire for her, his fear that Sybok will finish the job that Nero started and take away everything he loves. She does not reach for him, does not beseech him to tell her what troubles him nor accuses him of the illogic that is thrashing in him that he fears she can see in his eyes. She accepts, as she always does, of the things he cannot say and the things he cannot be.

She nods. "I will see you in the morning, Spock," she says quietly and closes the door.

He stares at her closed door for a while, pondering the merits of begging her forgiveness. It would be logical to do so; after all, he hurt her and he should make amends. Should that mean some displays of affection between them...well, it would be a small price to pay for making the logical choice. He groans in frustration. He is using logic to argue against himself, to gain instead personal desire. This is not the Vulcan way.

"Hey, is everything okay?"

Spock turns at the voice. Kirk has his head poking out of his door, looking interested, as he always does when it pertains to the lives of his crew.

"Everything is fine, Captain."

"Did Uhura kick you out?"

"No. Now, if you will excuse me--"

"Hey, Spock, I was kidding," Kirk says seriously. "Come on in."

"Captain, you need your sleep, and I need to meditate if we are to enter diplomatic negotiations tomorrow--"

Kirk throws his hand up impatiently in interruption. "I can't really sleep, and I'm willing to bet that you can't really meditate, which is why you went to visit Uhura; and no, I wasn't trying to be crude. You look like you need to chat, so come on in."

Spock considers Kirk's offer. As much as he hates to admit it, he's right.

_An act of faith_.

Spock remembers his elder self's words, remembers that Kirk is supposed to become his closest friend.

Why not?

He walks over to Kirk who has his head still half-way out the door.

Kirk grins. "Good man," he says, opening the door.

Kirk's rooms are similar to Spock's, though Kirk has a three-dimensional chess set.

"Sybok's going to play with me," Kirk says, noticing Spock's eyes on the chess set.

Spock's lips purse at the name, though Kirk doesn't notice.

'_Nyota would notice, Nyota would ask_,' Spock thinks, before asking Kirk, "What do you think of him?"

Kirk considers the question. "Odd guy. He's not like you, if that's what you mean. I thought all Vulcans were kind of uptight and about ready to snap. No offense or anything. But he's...it's like he has looked into the darkness of space and has been made crazier for it, as if he's realized the futility of life and is desperately enjoying every last minute of it that he's got."

Kirk swears he sees a frown flit across Spock's face before it returns to impassivity. "That is... overly poetic, but very perceptive, Captain."

Kirk shrugs. "Yeah, it happens every once in a while." He pauses. "Look, I know you think I'm some arrogant bastard who's just here for the ride, and you're right--at least about the arrogant part. But I do get it, sometimes."

Kirk's room has windows looking over the city to the desert surrounding it. Spock walks over to the windows, looking out into a land so foreign to him but yet reminds him so much of home.

"Get what, Captain?"

"It's Jim. We both have a lot in common, you know. You lost your mother to Nero, I lost my dad. You've got this brother that's come out of the woodwork, and I have a brother that disappeared into it. I know you don't really 'do' talking, and between you and me—as much as she cares, I don't think Uhura's going to get it--what you're going through with Sybok....Look, I just want you to know that my door's open."

Spock considered Kirk, as if he was making a decision.

"I am not sure if I trust him."

"Because he was checking out Uhura?" Kirk asks shrewdly.

Spock feels his teeth grind. "Yes. But more importantly, I think he is a Vulcan who is _V'tosh Ka'tur--_a Vulcan without logic."

"Spock, Uhura's not going to abandon you just because your brother was checking her out. She's a beautiful woman, she's going to be checked out by lots of men. Unless you plan to kill every single one of them, and believe me, if I had Uhura on my arm, I would be tempted to do the same, you have to let some things go. As for the being without logic, it does not necessarily suggest that we are immediate danger. I know it's weird to you, but try to treat him as if he's human."

Spock thinks this over, wanting to point out that Sybok is Vulcan, not human, and thus it would be illogical to treat Sybok as a human when he was, indeed, Vulcan.

"I have a brother," Kirk tells him.

Spock looks over at him. "I was not aware of this."

Kirk nods. "Yeah, his name is George. He ran off when I was thirteen. Our step-father was a real asshole. Our mom was off-planet a lot and when she wasn't around he would treat us like dirt-order us around, yell at us. George got the brunt of it, being older. I mean, we were difficult kids; we're Kirks, after all," Kirk grins, "but that guy took every opportunity to remind us that we were lower than dirt, that just because our dad was dead didn't mean we got a free pass in life. George--well, George is old enough to know what happened on the _Kelvin_ without reading any dissertation and if you think I'm mouthy, George is worse." Kirk laughed. "Anyway, so one day our step-father has me cleaning my dad's Corvette and the jackass has the audacity to have the idea to sell it; and George has just gone through three rounds with the guy and decided enough was enough."

"Three rounds?" Spock asked.

Kirk smiled. "I forgot, you don't quite get human phrases. It means to have a fight with someone, especially a physical fight. It comes from boxing."

Spock nods, understanding but not quite comprehending.

"So George decided to get the hell on out of dodge--to get out of the house, I mean. He decided he can't be a Kirk in that house anymore, so he decided to be a Kirk elsewhere. I tried to get him to stay--George was my hero, growing up. He was like all the comic book heroes and movie stars in one person. But he hugged me goodbye and walked away."

Kirk walks over to the chess set, picking up a random piece. "That very same day I took my dad's car and went for my first joy ride. One of the best experiences of my life. I wish I hadn't wrecked the thing, but hey, it was better than watching my step-father sell it. Still, it hurt like hell watching my brother leave. Every time I got into a fight with my step-father or needed advice on girls, I wanted him to be there. I guess I never stopped hero-worshiping him."

Kirk puts down the chess piece back on the board. "Give your brother a chance. I know he's not like you, and you don't really like him, but give the guy a chance. You'll regret it if you don't."

"Are you speaking as Captain right now?" Spock asks him.

"No, Spock, I'm speaking as your friend."

Spock nods, feeling suddenly tired after the rush of adrenaline and the events of the day. Kirk, who seems to be without the ability to sit still, plays with the chess pieces.

"Kirk--"

"It's Jim, Spock," Kirk reminds him.

"Did you ever relocate your brother?"

Kirk pauses in fiddling with the chess pieces. "Yeah. He went to live with my grandparents, my dad's folks, who were never very keen on my mom remarrying to begin with. I would see him every once in a while, during the summer."

There is something in Kirk's voice, an emotion Spock does not quite understand. There is more to this story, he knows, something that Kirk is keeping from him. "There is something you're not telling me, Captain."

"He got himself killed in a car accident when I was sixteen, he was driving too fast and turned a corner too sharply. Death was instantaneous. Doctors said he was drunk out of his mind."

"I am sorry," Spock says. Nyota told him it was the right thing to say when someone dies. It was trite, she told him, but that was what he was expected to say. He is sorry for Kirk, he knows the experience of loved one's death and would not wish for anyone to go through the same experience.

Kirk takes a deep breath. "You and me both."

He steps away from the chess pieces. "So you'll understand where I'm coming from. You've got a chance to know your brother. Take it, Spock. It might be the only one you've got."

Spock nods. "I understand, Captain. If you don't mind, I have a lot to think about. I will retire now and see you in the morning."

"Yeah," Kirk says. "See you in the morning."

Spock walks towards the door, pausing before he opens it. "Good night, Jim."

He looks up to see Kirk's understanding smile. "Good night, Spock."

_Glossary _

_Osu-Sir_

_Pudor-Tor-honored, respected, revered_

_V'tosh Ka'tur-a Vulcan who is without logic._


	9. Chapter 9

**To mhgood, for fixing punctuation and tenses and finding missing details like swimming trunks. Thank you for your praise and your ever vigilant work.  
To AtanaM, for encouraging more angst and making me think before I write. Sybok is better because of you.  
To whomever decided to let Zachary Quinto narrate the audiobook version of the Star Trek novelization. That was a fantastic idea.  
To Shakespeare, for taking the English language and making Art.  
To anyone and everyone who's given this story a shot, because you make me smile.**

She closes the door, feeling as though she has somehow failed Spock, has been unable to translate his expressions and his words as she should. Sometimes, and she would never admit this out loud, she wasn't sure where the line was, when to pester him and when to let things go. She knows him better than everyone on the _Enterprise,_ and yet sometimes, like right now, she feels as if she doesn't know him at all.

She sighs. She wanted him to come in, to talk to her. She wanted to tell him that Sybok was just flat out _weird,_ but that she felt uncomfortable saying that because Sybok was his brother. She wanted to get along with Sybok, because he was Spock's brother, but he unnerved her. The juxtaposition of his emotionality and his Vulcan appearance left her unbalanced.

She saw the conflict and the anguish, along with the desire, in his eyes, all the things that he didn't want her to see, all the things that he kept so bottled up inside, unable to understand that she would gladly share his pain, that he could let her in. She would gladly listen to him, even feel what he was feeling through a mind meld, if he couldn't bring himself to form the words.

The desire—she knew he desired her. He was never shy in letting that shine in his eyes. But she wished, she wanted him, for once, to follow through on that impulse, instead of being able to forcing himself back under control after a few minutes. She wanted to comfort him—emotionally, physically, anyway she could but her stupid, stubborn, absolutely, adorably maddening Vulcan _left_ out of some bizarre and idiotic sense of chivalry.

Instead she is alone, standing in front of a door wishing it were open instead of closed, wishing that instead of letting it go, that she had grabbed him by his perfectly unwrinkled shirt and forced him into her bedroom so they could confront the issue.

She walks over to her bed after rustling through the chest of drawers to find something suitable to wear. She has to admit, Sybok has good taste, or at least has good decorators. There are books and a nice reading area and a huge bed--at least huge compared to her bed on the _Enterprise. _It is really too big for just one person. It's just one more reminder that she is alone when she could have had Spock next to her. The sheets are silken, and suddenly she is extremely tired, exhausted, really. This is all too much for just one day, and all she can do is sleep.

When she wakes up, she has no idea for a moment where she is, and she struggles to remember. The memories come back to her in a torrent: getting the transmission, landing on this planet, meeting Sybok. Kirk introduced the topic of Vulcan yesterday; today will be a day for discussion, for negotiations. She stretches, getting out of bed to prepare for the day. She wonders how the talks will go now that there's the added element of family relations. Then there is Kirk's penchant for blurting out everything that comes to his mind. She's going to have to use all of her linguistic and diplomatic skills just to get through the apologies she'll have to make for Kirk. She smiles; Kirk will be Kirk, no matter what and the thought was comforting. He is reliable, in his own way. Beneath all of his immaturity and stupid bravado, he isn't a bad guy.

She puts on her Starfleet uniform; she's going to have to see if she can't get it washed or something. She looks in the mirror, about to put on her earrings, when she notices her hair. It's sticking out in every direction and she's starting to get split ends.

"God, has no one heard of hair care products on this planet?" She mutters in exasperation.

She brushes it, trying to tame it as best she can. She puts it up; it's not nearly as slick as it usually is, but it will do for now. She's really going to have to talk to someone about at least getting a blow dryer or a decent conditioner.

She walks out of her room, heading towards Spock's. She hopes that she'll be able to knock on his door and they will talk, as they always have; that the light of day will dissolve his inability to talk, like the sun burning away fog.

She crosses the hallway and knocks on his door, to no answer. She knocks again, louder and more insistently this time, but gets the same result. She has no idea what time it is; for all she knows Spock has already left for breakfast. Perhaps he's talking with Sybok. Maybe he's meditating, doesn't hear her knocks.

She shouldn't disturb him, if that is the case. He has just found out he has a brother. She needs to let him figure things out, in the only way he knows how.

Or maybe he is avoiding her. The thought is like salt on a wound, a reminder that he hurt her, deeply, last night. He rarely does this. He always provides an explanation for his actions, even when she doesn't want one. She is left with an inexplicable action, a haunting look in his eyes and the inability to do anything about it. She can't get it out of her mind that somehow that all has something to do with her, as stupid and irrational and selfish as it is. She pushes it away, needs to push it away, because she is not only Nyota, Spock's...whatever, but Lieutenant Uhura, on a mission as Communications Officer.

He is probably meditating, trying to qualify and quantify the life changing events that have just happened to him. He is trying to regain control, because it is the only way he knows how to cope.

She tries Kirk's door as well, but he has already left his room. Nyota rolls her eyes. He's probably off trying to seduce some poor Vulcan girl. Or eating. Either way, she needs to find him so she can explain Vulcan culture to him so they don't start a war with a founding member of the Federation.

She wanders, not quite sure where she's going, but confident enough she can find Kirk, or someone who has seen Kirk.

She admires the art that lines the walls. As much as she loves the _Enterprise_, sometimes she misses the rich colors. The bridge of the _Enterprise_ is white, with the only splashes of color existing on the screens and in their uniforms. Her home in Africa used to burst with color, from the blue of the sky to the greens and yellows of the plains. The sun was amber, orange, tangerine. Her grandmother's garden was persian blue, rose, lemon. The colors that swirl and surround her are comforting in their familiarity.

She opens a door, like Alice in Wonderland, and finds herself out on a pathway, surrounded by a colonnade. She sees a pool past the colonnade, one that rivals the pool at Starfleet Academy. The colonnade surrounds all sides of the pool, and past the colonnade are what look to be Cyprus trees. She walks towards the pool. The water is a beautiful turquoise, and there is a man with black hair, pointy-ears, and pale skin swimming.

"Spock?" she calls.

The man stops swimming and looks up. She is wrong; it is not Spock, it's his brother. Her stomach drops, suddenly she feels anxious. She pushes the feeling aside—it probably has more to do with the fact that he startled her more than anything else. She wasn't expecting to find him, that's all.

He smiles at her. "Lieutenant Uhura. What a pleasant surprise."

His voice is softer than she remembers, more like Spock's. She looks at him as he swims to the edge of the pool and climbs out, walking towards her. Sybok is well sculpted, the droplets of water running down his torso, meeting his swimming trunks, demanding her attention, commanding her to recognize the fact that he was an attractive male. Spock is handsome, physically fit because Starfleet demands it, but he is more sleek than muscular. She has brought it up more than once her appreciation for his physique, something that has always brought a questioning glance to his face and the response that being overly concerned with one's physical appearance beyond the requirements of a healthy lifestyle is illogical.

Sybok...Sybok was made to run her hands all over him, feel those muscles herself, run her fingers through his hair. Sybok was made for her to wonder,made for her to notice.

She shakes her head. OK, he looks good, hell, better than Spock and he might have changed his voice to sound more like Spock, but that doesn't make him Spock, that doesn't change the uneasiness that refuses to go away.

"Is there anything I can do to help you?" he asks gently.

"I was looking for Captain Kirk. I need to discuss with him diplomatic protocol."

"Lieutenant," he chides. "I consider both you and the Captain practically family. There is no need for you to review Federation protocol."

She frowns at that. She's known this man less than a day. Though she doesn't say so out loud, she wants to point out that he doesn't know her, at all. They are practically strangers. They are the furthest thing from family she can imagine.

"You don't know the Captain," Uhura retorts, her voice sharp.

His smile grows wider. "No, I don't. But I know people like him. He thinks he can save the universe, doesn't he? He's arrogant, thinks he deserves the world."

Uhura raises her eyebrow. "And you got all of this from an hour of conversation with him?"

He shrugs. "I can read people. I understand them better than they understand themselves, their desires, their wishes, no matter how buried they believe these secrets to be." He takes a step closer to her.

She tries to find something, anything, in his eyes but still finds nothing, and is at once repulsed and relieved by this characteristic. She finds it so unsettling, staring into an abyss, but it also reminds her that this is not Spock, regardless of the similarity. There is no fire, no passion, no soul in those eyes. Spock isn't in there.

She takes a step back, regaining distance.

"My apologies, Lieutenant," he murmurs. "I have made you uncomfortable."

"Yes, you have," she tells him with courage she doesn't feel. He is a Vulcan--he can easily overpower her in a fight. She is essentially powerless, a balance of power she does not like. "You have known me less than twenty-four hours. You presume more than you should, Sybok. "

"I did not mean to do so. I must confess I find you fascinating. You are a talented xenolinguist, communications officer on the _Enterprise,_and a beautiful woman. Most humans can be so...predictable, so painstakingly simplistic. But you--you, Lieutenant Uhura, are like a kaleidoscope. There is so much more to you than your Starfleet title." His words are so deeply personal, as if they are meant for her and her alone, sounding so very sincere in their emotion. His voice is rough, dark, reminding her of the darkest chocolate she's ever eaten. She wants to believe him, though she balks at the idea of doing so. If anyone else had said this, she would have laughed until she cried and then give them a cutting remark if they were still around. Yet he makes it sound as if she's ripped this confession from his heart, his soul that she isn't even sure he possesses.

_I find you fascinating._

Suddenly a memory grabs her, reminding her of the very first time Spock called her fascinating.

"_Why did you enter xenolinguistics, Cadet Uhura?" he asked her one day in his office as she graded Introductory Vulcan assignments._

_She smiled, as she always did when he asked her personal questions. "Language is the one element humans and humanoids have in common, Commander. Whole philosophies are expressed through words. Even in the most different languages there are similarities. I am fascinated by not only the complexities of words, but the commonalities that bring us together. The purpose of Starfleet is to preserve peace among our nation-planets. Understanding languages is essential to this, wouldn't you agree, Commander?"_

_He regarded her as if she were a puzzle that he desperately wanted to solve, she thought. "Fascinating, __Cadet Uhura," he murmured._

_She got the distinct impression he wasn't talking about her answer._

"Lieutenant? Are you feeling well?"

He rips her from her memory, pulling her back to the present. "I'm feeling fine, Sybok. However, if you could direct me to where I could find Commander Spock, I would greatly appreciate it."

He tilts his head slightly. "Not the Captain?" His inflection suggests a challenge, daring her to lose her composure.

"No, not the Captain. I have business to finish with Commander Spock."

He stares at her for a moment, regarding her. He licks his lips, something she has seen Spock do on occasion and never thought it could be creepy or predatory. Sybok has proven her wrong and she's unsure if she can ever see the gesture again without flinching, remembering how predatory Sybok had made the gesture.

"I have not seen my brother today. I'm afraid I cannot help you, Lieutenant."

She nods. "Thank you, anyway. If you will excuse me..."

"Of course. My apologies, again, for making you uncomfortable. It was not my intention." He sounds genuinely contrite, and for a second she is thrown off by the two facets of him--the gentleman and the rogue, the villain and the king.

He runs a finger down her arm, making her shudder. She jerks her arm away, clutching the violated arm with her opposite hand, ready to warn him, to tell him that if he ever touches her again, there will be hell to pay, but he is already back in the pool, finishing his laps.

His palace may be pretty, but Nyota can't wait to get off this creepy planet.

* * *

He can't find her.

Though they haven't officially melded yet, Spock has always been able to sense her, know when she is near. It is something that makes him certain that she is his bondmate, and at the same time the intensity of his bond towards her terrifies him.

He stops his search of the corridors, closing his eyes, mentally searching for her. He does not hear her melodic voice, does not smell the unique blend of jasmine and Nyota that he has grown so accustomed to. There is a clamor in his head refusing to go away, taunting him with the suspicion that Nyota is with Sybok. It is foolish at best and illogical at worst. He would not blame Nyota if she rejected him and terminated their relationship because of his thoughts, the way he acted last night. After meditating and showering, he had gone to her room to apologize to find her already gone, her room empty.

He can hear her--she is outside the door. He opens it, finding himself outside on a passageway surrounded by colonnades, past which is a pool. Nyota is standing by one of the columns near the pool, talking with his brother. Sybok takes a step closer to her and her heart rate accelerates, her breathing increases.

He touches her. A single finger down her arm so slowly that it feels like an eternity to Spock. He is rooted to the ground, made to watch his brother take what is rightfully his. What is more, Nyota, his Nyota who normally gives no thought to telling off a man who does not understand boundaries, does nothing. She accepts the gesture, does nothing to stop it.

"_Is whispering nothing? Skulking in corners? Wishing clocks more swift? Hours, minutes? Noon, midnight? Is this nothing? Why then all the world and all that's in't is nothing, if this be nothing!_"His traitorous mind recites to him. He recognizes the passage--a paraphrase of Leontes of _The Winter's Tale_. His mother was particularly fond of Shakespeare, though Spock never quite understood _The Winter's Tale_, in particular. He did enjoy Shakespeare's idea of human nature. He found it fascinating when applied to modern human society.

_Is this nothing?_

It has to be.

He watches as she takes a step back. Her heart rate suddenly becomes a pounding in his head that he can't escape, the implications of what he just saw, as illogical as it is for him to make assumptions, is too much. It closes around his throat, choking the life from him, consuming him in a fire.

_Is this nothing?_

He can't get the question out of his head. It is taunting him, proving to him that he is foolish to think that Nyota wouldn't eventually see his shortcomings, that she find a much more suitable mate than him. He cannot hear, he cannot see, and none of it matters. He does not need to see anymore, he's had enough.


	10. Chapter 10

**I am so incredibly humbled by the response that Nar has gotten—you guys are amazing. I want to especially thank AtanaM for taking time during her vacation for helping me with this chapter and for making plot bunnies come out of the sky. I also want to thank mhgood for making sure I don't sound like an illiterate idiot and for generally tightening this up.**

He walks back to his room, his footsteps sharp, exact, a staccato-like rhythm of a snare drum. He wants to harm his brother, claim Nyota, and the desire to do both actions confuses and scares him, more than a little. He decides to meditate, to clear his head and find some answers before he does something rash, as he fears he will. There has to be something, an element, perhaps, in the atmosphere, something that is driving him slowly insane. What it is, he isn't sure.

Watching his brother..._touch_ Nyota plays itself in constant loop in his head. He growls inwardly at the memory, wishing more than ever that he hadn't remained frozen in place, that he had instead broken out of his passivity and proven himself to be the worthier--

Worthier what, exactly? This is illogical. He does not have sole propriety over Nyota; it is both illogical and immoral. She could accept another's touch. It was on her person, after all. She prides herself in being independent and she would be disappointed in his proprietary inclinations and desires to hurt his brother. He has to find the cause of these impulses and in the meantime, meditate them away.

He closes his door, locking it. He wishes to not be disturbed, for this world and its chaos to go away until he can find a solution to it, until he can bring himself back under control. He paces, feeling trapped, trying to find an acceptable solution and finding none. Pacing, counting his steps, only frustrates him. He slumps down in the armchair off in the corner of his room, his head in his hands.

He tries to meditate, concentrating on the teachings that were ingrained into him as a child, but Nyota comes back to his mind, refusing to leave. She taunts him, wearing the clinging robe of last night. She offers him everything he has ever fantasized about, every impulse he has ever suppressed around her. He resents her, illogically, for doing this to him. He can never hate her; this is of his own doing, this is his own mind turning against him. But a part of him, a small, illogical part of him, prefers that she had never kissed him, had never shown him so much joy and consequently, so much anguish.

Why did she accept Sybok's touch? Spock believed that Nyota disliked his brother, but her actions do not suggest as such. What he witnessed perplexes him. It is illogical, irrational; he does not understand nor comprehend.

Does she not understand? Does she not feel the same tempest of emotions when she is near him, as he does when he is in her presence? Is he merely just someone exotic, a placeholder of her fascination until she finds someone better?

He growls, suddenly standing, the urge to throw something, to find Nyota and prove to her that he is the better man, the better lover, so overwhelming that it scares him.

He sits back down. He cannot do this. He has lost control since he was a child. He needs to stay in his room, needs to calm himself before he sees anyone.

He breathes, in and out, demanding for the meditation to take his madness away.

* * *

Sybok returns to his laps. This will probably be the most fun he has today, he muses. After all, Jim will want to talk about diplomacy and Vulcan, and while he couldn't care two whits about Vulcan, he can't tell Jim that. He will have to sit and pretend to enjoy the game of diplomacy when in truth it is really only amusing for the first few minutes, like a chess game with a new partner. But partners become predictable, have a set strategy, a set game play. There is no skill, no thrill in winning against child's logic.

He sighs, ceasing his laps and just floating in the pool. This would have been a lot better if Jim had told him that Vulcan was destroyed and all of the Vulcans with it. Yes, there is a slight consolation prize in Vulcan being destroyed by a black hole, but it would have been so much better to hear that he and the rest of the colony were the last of the species. It would be a fine justice to hear such a fate, after the way his mother and he were treated.

Instead he'll have to pretend to be remotely interested in the talks. He hates pretending. Why pretend when one instead could be amused? Of course, there is the lovely Uhura—she would undoubtedly be present during the proceedings, as well as his brother. Perhaps there would be some fun amongst the tedium. Spock is a fool if he does not know that Sybok was aware of his presence in the shadows, watching him touch Uhura. He isn't very surprised if that is indeed the case. Spock's mind is so clouded by logic that he can't see things that are right in front of him. He wouldn't have touched the lovely Uhura if Spock wasn't there, in the shadows, watching every move. He knew, the moment he started speaking to the lieutenant that she meant something to Spock. His human eyes changed, assessed him quickly as a threat. Sybok noticed when Spock was suddenly at Uhura's shoulder, proving his possession over her. While the lieutenant had just been a mild curiosity before that point, she suddenly became fascinating in Sybok's mind, a pawn that had made it across the chess board to become a queen. He watched them, to be sure of his conclusions, watched as they stole glances at each other, felt the aura they gave off when they were around each other. It would be sickening if it wasn't useful.

Uhura is proving to be a slow seduction, and if he weren't so fascinated by her, and if brother dear hadn't proven himself so irrevocably in love with her, he wouldn't have bothered. After all, he has dozens of Vulcan girls willing to prove their love to him, right now, if he so wishes.

Uhura, however, is different. She is as proud as a goddess and as beautiful as one. She speaks Vulcan like a true inhabitant of the planet, though Sybok imagines that she has more than enough oral practice with his brother. Still, she isn't empty headed, nor a vapid, tiresome female. She challenges him. She is slightly scared of him; it is more of a feeling of discomfort, but there is also this fascination lingering in her scent. She wants to know him; she wants to what it is about him that unsettles her, that makes him tick.

He would be more than willing to show her.

He pulls himself out of the pool, lying on his back to face the sun. One leg dangles idly into the pool, making circles in the water. It would be fun to seduce Uhura while Spock watches. It certainly would be better than talking with that banal Captain of theirs.

He supposes that every sentient species in the universe is allowed to have a modicum of ignorance that was excusable. Humans, however, were unique. They have the amazing capacity for inexcusable ignorance, absolute stupidity. It's probably where Spock got his unfortunate inability to see what was right in front of him, Sybok mused. It must be quite unfortunate to be a human-Vulcan hybrid. Stuck with the idiocy of a race and the logic restraints of another.

How tiresome.

He sighs, wondering what it is that Uhura sees in his brother. Maybe she has a fetish for pointy ears. He rather hopes that is the case.

He gets up, walking to his quarters. After all, he has two games to play, one of seduction and the other of diplomacy. One thrilling, the other dull. Perhaps he could plan a party for after the talks to relieve the boredom.  
He likes parties.

* * *

Spock opens his eyes.

The fire that threatened to consume him is extinguished. He walks over to the PADD on the desk, trying to find any information he can on Planet A-75, anything in its environment that would lend itself to madness in Vulcans. The article is sparse, more of an encyclopedia entry, and not containing any information that is pertinent to him. He places down the PADD in frustration.

There is a hesitant knock at his door.

"Enter."

Nyota opens the door, coming into the room only by a few steps. "Kirk is meeting with Sybok in an hour's time."

She notices that his eyes flare at the mention of Sybok's name, but he quickly suppresses the emotion.

"Thank you for telling me, Nyota. Am I to conclude that the Captain wishes to have us there as well?" he asks smoothly.

"Yes," she says, searching his face. "Spock, are you okay? I looked for you this morning but I couldn't find you."

"I was in my quarters, Nyota. I took a shower and then I meditated. I then went for a walk and discovered that my brother has a fondness for swimming." His tone is clipped as he references the earlier incident. He waits for her reaction. Her eyes widen slightly and she clutches her arm again. She steadies her features, shaking her head slightly, dropping her arm.

She looks at him, her chin tilting up. "Your brother's creepy."

"Is that why you allowed him to touch you?"

She raises her eyebrows. "Allowed him? Is that what you think? If you supposedly saw us, then you must have seen me jerk my arm away. Thus, it would only be logical to conclude that I did not welcome his touch."

He raises an eyebrow. "Is that so, Nyota? Is that why your heart rate was accelerated? Is that why your scent changed? I did not see you jerk your arm away, nor did I hear you verbally inform him to keep his hands off your person. I know that you are not adverse by informing men to not touch you, I have heard you tell the Captain so many times. What makes my brother different, Lieutenant?"

"He had already gone back into the pool before I could say anything, Spock! I told you, your brother creeps me out! I know he's your brother and everything, I get it, but he's weird in a restraining order way."

He tilts his head. "I have heard of the human reaction to desire being extreme dislike. Is this the case?"

She wants to scream, wants to know why he is so convinced that she wants his brother and not him.

She parries with a question of her own. "Why did you leave last night?"

His lips purse for half a second. "Because our conversation was concluded. It was logical to leave, for you to sleep and for me to meditate."

She steps closer to him, too close. He can feel the heat that radiates off of her; his hands move on their own volition to her hips. Her lips move to his ear. "I didn't want to sleep, Spock. I wanted you. I wanted you, in my bed that was too big for me alone, and if you think that I could want anyone else, you're out of your Vulcan mind."

The fire hasn't been extinguished, he realizes. It was merely lying dormant, biding its time. It's going to consume him; he is going to die from the inside out. He wants her, needs to have her, desperately. He calculates how long it will take to walk to the bed, starts spinning half-truths to tell the Captain to explain their absence from the talks. She isn't feeling well, he needs to meditate. Best not to disturb the both of them. For a while. Preferably not until tomorrow at the very least.

She trails her fingers oh so slowly down his chest before she steps away, turning away from him and walking towards the door.

"An hour, Spock."

He nods.  
He'll need that hour to meditate.


	11. Chapter 11

**A million thank yous to mhgood and AtanaM for betaing this so quickly, for looking out for renegade prepositions and lack of details, and loving my sentences. Also, thank you to Elizawriter, for being a lovely friend.  
**

Sybok sighs, slightly disappointed that he is right—these talks are boring, already wholly less interesting than the interlude he had with the Vulcan girl in his room. Of course, she was no Lieutenant Uhura, but it was no matter. He would have Uhura soon enough.

Speaking of the delectable Lieutenant, she accompanied the Captain, not Spock, into the library, where Sybok had instructed the three to meet him, in order to talk. The library is a spacious room that is mostly ornamental, rather than academic. There are books, lots of books. Books on Vulcan philosophy, books by Orion courtesans. There are translations of Terran classics, the epic poetry standards of every civilization. Sybok has read all of these books, yet it would be incorrect to call him a scholar, or even remotely studious. These books are meant to impress, to intimidate intellectually; they are not for the sole pleasure of reading a book.

Sybok instructs them to seat themselves along the carved, wooden conference table. There are leather executive chairs that have the ability to recline, a faculty which Kirk took full advantage of. Sybok almost expected the human to start spinning in the chair at any moment. Jim Kirk was an adolescent, more than likely Sybok would enjoy his presence at a party, but only for a small duration of time.

Uhura sat to one side of the Captain, Spock to the other. Sybok raises his eyebrow, surprised his brother does not insist sitting next to her. His brother sits ramrod straight, his face even more expressionless than usual, staring straight ahead. Uhura steals glances at him, her heart racing as she does so. Sybok wonders if they had another argument. He tries to devise some way to touch her, to descern what had happened in the hour before the talks. There is, of course, the added benefit of enraging his brother.

"You said you are aware of the destruction of Vulcan," Jim begins.

Sybok sighs, sizably annoyed by the distraction that Jim presents. He tries to stifle it, though he is only partially successful, disguising slightly as a cough.

"I am aware, yes."

"Then you are also aware of the plans to form a new Vulcan, with assistance from the Federation."

Sybok nods. "Do you plan on telling me anything new, Jim?" he asks, disguising his condescension with a teasing tone. "I'm hoping to have a party in honor of my guests."

Kirk perks up at the mention of a party. "A party?"

Sybok wonders if the Captain parrots everything he hears. "Yes," he says slowly, drawing out the word, as if he was talking to a child, "a party. I personally love to have fêtes, and I cannot think of a better reason for a celebration than to welcome members of Starfleet."

"Sybok, I hardly think now is the time for festivities when our people are suffering," Spock interjects in Vulcan.

"On the contrary, brother, I can think of no better time to celebrate," Sybok responds in the same tongue.

"Are you, as the Terran expression goes, fiddling while Rome burns, Sybok?" Spock questions.

The anger in his voice in unmistakable, coming out as a growl given Vulcan's gutteral nature. It sends shivers down Uhura's spine. She is accustomed to Spock's gentle, cultured cadences and even his dry, brittle wit during their intellectual disagreements. This is different, this is emotion. Savage, pure, undiluted emotion, it scares her—but it is a good scare, a scare of rollar coasters and ghost stories. She wants to hear this toneagain and again. In her bedroom. Growling her name.

Sybok's eyes flick to Uhura. He takes in her dilated pupils, can almost feel the warmth of the blood rising beneath the surface of her cheeks. She smells different and he knows exactly what he would see in her mind and feel if he touched her.

She likes it when they talk in Vulcan. Fascinating. It's something he'll have to remember.

He grins at his brother. "Of course not. What I mean to suggest is that Vulcans cannot mourn forever; to do so would be...illogical," his smile widens to a grin. "We should celebrate our heritage, should we not, Spock? Besides, as a son of an ambassador, you should know how essential social functions are."

"What do you know of logic, brother? Your mind is compromised by emotions you cannot control, that you have no wish to control. Do not talk to me of logic!"

Kirk leans over to Uhura. "Is Spock going to get Vulcan thrown out of the Federation?" His tone is joking, a jest to lighten the tenseness in the room.

She is tempted to bat him away, she is too engaged in the verbal fencing match unfolding before her. Then she remembers her duties, her function as an interpreter. She paraphrases the conversation for Kirk, who gapes.

"_Damn."_

Sybok looks over to them. "Spock, we are neglecting the Captain and the lovely Lieutenant, along with being woefully off-topic."

Kirk has only seen the look in Spock eyes once before-while Spock nearly chocked him to death.

"Why don't we take a break?" Kirk suggests.

The brothers stare at each other—Spock's murderous gaze meeting Sybok's bemused one.

"No," Sybok answers, not breaking his brother's gaze. "I have other affairs to attend to today. We will at least make headway in these 'talks'."

Kirk nods slowly, turning to Uhura. "Is there any language that both you and Spock know but Sybok wouldn't?" he whispers in her ear.

Uhura nods, not trusting herself to speak when she is fully aware of Vulcan superior hearing.

"Get him out of here," Kirk told her.

She stands up, walking over to Spock. Kirk didn't think it was possible, but Spock straightened his posture even more.

"Spock, Kirk is worried about you," she says in Swahili.

"I am fine," he murmurs in Arabic. "Please tell the Captain I will not present a problem during negotiations."

"What is the matter? You've been acting strange all day. Something is bothering you. Come, Kirk can handle this, let's get out of here. Let me help you," she whispers in French. She touches his shoulder, hoping to calm him, to take away his madness.

"Surak's teeth, woman, I am perfectly well! If I require your services, believe me, you'll be the first to know!" he yells in Swahili.

"If you two are done talking in a Rosetta stone, I would like to get back to these proceedings," Sybok says in a bored tone.

"Of course," Spock says, his voice suddenly calm.

Nyota sits back down, the anger radiating off of her. She feels like slapping him, an action she is seriously considering doing at a later time. Right now, she must sit.

But she can still be livid.

They haven't been intimate, not yet. Their relationship was still very, very new when the distress call from Vulcan came and since then Nyota had given him space to mourn and get used to being in a relationship. She didn't take sex lightly, a fact that had both appalled and intrigued Gaila, who equated sex with clubbing. Nyota wanted to be with Spock, she had fantasized enough about it, but she wanted it to be special, to mean something.

_If I require your services..._

The sexual implication of his words took away all the meaning she had bestowed on lovemaking between them-changing it from a powerful demonstration of their emotional bond to baseless fucking, making her feel like nothing more than a prostitute, a whore.

Well, well, _well_. Sybok's eyes glinted, he suppressed a grin. Spock had made Uhura angry. Sybok smiles, watching his brother's careful countenance and Uhura seethe. She is really rather emotional. He would even dare to say she is fiesty.

How interesting. It is irksome hearing them talk in what he surmised to be various Terran languages but now Uhura is mad at his brother. This could prove very fortunate.

For him, at any rate.

He notices Kirk's voice, speaking again of frivolous matters.

He drowns out Jim's words, refusing to pay any more attention to this charade of diplomatic negotiations. Perhaps he would have fireworks at his party. Fireworks were fun and he would need at least five cases of the finest sparkling wine made on the planet. That might prove a problem. The grape crop wasn't nearly as good as he wished it to be.

"The location of a second Vulcan has not been resolved, the council is still in search of a planet similar to Vulcan in atmosphere and climate."

The mention of a second Vulcan snaps him out of his reverie. The Captain has managed to surprise him, coming up with frankly preposterous ideas.

"Jim, if you are suggesting that Vulcans would be able to find a home on this planet, I'm afraid you are sadly mistaken," Sybok replies, the chill in his voice unmistakable.

Uhura gasps. Spock stares.

"You are aware of the...differences between my planet and Vulcan?"

"Sybok, I didn't mean-"

"This is a place for people who know how to _feel_, Jim. Not those willing to suppress their emotions to fit society's mores. I do not think Vulcans would like it here," he looks pointedly at Spock.

"If you'll let me finish, Sybok, then you would know that was not what I was suggesting at all. I was, in fact, suggesting _helping _the High Council find a suitable planet, even help them financially," Jim interrupts, his own voice starting to show some tension in tone.

Sybok sneers. "You have a lot to learn of Vulcan culture, Jim. While the High Council and I don't exactly see eye to eye, Captain. I'll will be more than willing to welcome any Vulcan that has realized there is more to life than the teachings of Surak. But I cannot, I will not, work in conjunction with the same High Council that cast out my mother and I from Vulcan."

Nyota didn't think it was possible to contain so much hatred in a face. Sybok's eyes glint like obsidian, his mouth set in a firm line. From what little Spock has told her of his childhood, she knows how harsh and cruel Vulcan society can be. She almost, _almost_ feels bad for Sybok.

Kirk leans back in his chair, tenting his fingers on his chest like a Vulcan trying to center himself. It is a subconscious gesture, an indication that on some level Kirk knows that things are starting to go terribly, terribly wrong. "What happened, Sybok?"

"Vulcans do not take kindly to bastards, Jim. Nor do they take kindly to those who think differently from them. Both my mother and I were expelled from Vulcan, we were considered dangerous to society."

Kirk turns to Spock. "And this is a common practice on Vulcan?"

"The minority who are a threat to the majority are removed. It is logical, Captain. Terran judicial codes are founded on the same logic."

Jim presses his lips together. "This has been...informative, Sybok. Thank you. I apologize for any duress we caused you."

Sybok waves his hand. "Not at all, Jim. I do hope you'll stay for the celebration."

Jim grins. "Of course."

Sybok claps his hands together, his smile returning, the storm that was threatening within him had disappeared. "Good, then we're done here. The palace is yours to explore and enjoy—I am afraid I have business to attend to and will be unable to entertain you today."

"Actually, I wanted to take a look around the colony," Kirk says.

" Well, I would show you around myself, as I said, I have other matters to attend to," Sybok hedges.

Kirk shrugs. "That's okay."

Sybok shakes his head. "I strongly advise you to stay inside the palace, where you can be under my protection—the colony can be dangerous at times."

"I'll take my chances," Kirk replies, undeterred.

"Do you wish for a tour guide?" he asks politely.

"Nah, I think I'm okay. I want to get an authentic feel for the city."

Sybok shrugs. "As you wish."

He bids them goodbye. He does sincerely hope that nothing will happen to Jim but it will all be c'thia-the way things are.


	12. Chapter 12

**My apologies for disappearing off the face of the Earth for a little while. I was vacationing in downeast Maine for a while, and today's my last day of vacation. Hopefully you'll all forgive me for my absence since I come with gifts, namely another chapter. Thanks, as always, to my lovely betas—mhgood and AtanaM, for betaing this so quickly and so insightfully as always.**

Uhura walks back to their hall, ready to give Spock a piece of her mind. It's more of a march, a walk to suggest to anyone that might cross her path that it would be wise for them just to stay out of her way.

"Uhura!"

She groans. "Not now, Kirk. I'm kind of busy." She keeps walking, a bit faster now, trying to subtly and without chance of censure to tell her Captain that she simply does not have time for his shenanigans right now.

"I don't care about your booty call. I need you to be my interpreter."

She whirls around, ready to give him a tongue lashing for assuming she was about to go on a booty call, when he holds up a hand. She's furious, absolutely and completely furious. It is the second time that a man has debased her, degrading her from a senior officer on the _Enterprise_ to a merely a body, an object whose sole use is fucking. Not even sex or love or any other pleasant euphemism. She's tired of the disrespect, tired of the double standard of being a woman on the _Enterprise_ and she thinks it's time for the Captain to have a lecture on sexual harassment, as delivered by Nyota Uhura, Xenolinguistics expert.

"And before you go all indignant on me, let me remind you that I am Captain and I'm asking on official Starfleet business." Kirk takes a step back, holding up his hands, seeing the fire in her eyes. He waits for her to take a deep breath, to calm down. "Hey," he says, a little softly. "I had to get your attention. I didn't mean it."

"None of this is official Starfleet business. You were bored and decided it would be a great idea to beam down to this god-forsaken planet," she sighs in frustration. She pinches the bridge of her nose, all of the anger and fire that was in her moments before suddenly gone, replaced with fatigue and confusion.

"You sound like Bones."

Uhura smiles ruefully. "Yeah, I kind of did."

Kirk grins back. "So you'll explore the colony with me?"

"I should really see if Spock's okay..."

"No, you were going to fillet him within an inch of his life with that talented tongue of yours. Come on, don't you want to hear how other Vulcans speak this emotional dialect?"

She is curious. Maybe it would help to take her mind off of Spock, just for a few hours. Besides, Spock is the one acting petulant and if he wants to have a pity party, she should let him go at it and see if she could possibly have some fun while she's here. She nods in response to Kirk's question.

"Great. Come on, let's go."

They make their way out of the castle, only to be reminded they are high up in the mountains.

"So how do you propose we go down to the colony, _Captain _?"

Kirk frowns, then his countenance brightens. "First we're getting that Vulcan boyfriend of yours and then I have one word for you, Nyota Uhura."

She cringes at Kirk saying her full name. "And what would that be?"

"_Hoverbikes."_

"Hoverbikes, Kirk?"

They walk through the hallways again.

"Yeah, Sybok was telling me that he has quite the collection and I was welcome to use one anytime I wanted to go riding. Well, I want to go riding."

"So why do you need Spock?"

"You know that weird percentage thing he does in his head when it comes to outcomes?"

"Yes?"

"I need him for that, and I want to make sure I don't insult any Vulcans. I was just going to let him brood or whatever the hell he was going to do, but now I need him, and as his Captain, he has to listen to me."

Uhura just shakes her head.

Kirk knocks on Spock's door. "Spock! Open up!"

"Captain, this is an inopportune time," Spock responds, opening the door just a crack.

Kirk rolls his eyes. "Just be glad that Uhura is here, otherwise I would make an obscene joke right now and I'm pretty sure she can hurt me."

"I have the intention of mediating for the next few hours. If you'll excuse me..." Nyota notes that his tone remains respectful, yet there is an undercurrent of sullenness to it, like a child in the time out chair talking with an adult.

"No."

Spock raises an eyebrow. "No?"

"No. I need your help. Well, we need your help. Come on."

"Is this an order, Captain?" His tone is now completely sullen, bordering on resentful. Nyota feels like jerking open the door and shaking him, telling him that it's time to get his big boy pants on and to stop acting like a child.

"Yes, Mr. Spock. Consider it an order. Now get out here."

The door closes then opens again, Spock stepping out into the hallway.

"Yes, Captain?"

"You're coming to explore the colony with us."

"Captain, the palace is in the mountains, it would be nearly impossible for us to reach the colony on foot."

"Hoverbikes, Spock. We're going to use hoverbikes."

Spock considers the idea. "If there are adequate paths down the mountain, it would be conceivable for us to reach the colony."

"You got a percentage for me?"

"Since I do not know the parameters of the situation, Captain, no, I do not."

"Hypothetically, Spock."

"As I said, _if_ there are pathways and _if _visibility is optimal, then our chances of reaching the colony within an hour is quite great, with very little probability of injury, .3476% chance, to be precise, if there is adequate gear."

"Great! Exactly what I wanted to hear. Let's go."

They meander through the hallways.

"Captain, do you know where you are going?" Uhura questions.

"Of course," Kirk says, shocked that she would ask such a thing.

"You have no idea where you are actually going, do you?"

They turn another corner and Uhura swears they have been down this hallway before.

"Okay, so we're in unfamiliar territory, but this palace can only be so big."

Spock is silent, talking to neither the Captain nor Nyota for the duration of their exploration for hoverbikes.

"We'll find them," Kirk says reassuringly.

An attractive Vulcan girl, Uhura doesn't think she's old enough to be legal on any planet, walks up to them, wearing what resembles an Indian sari.

"Can I help you?" she asks in Vulcan.

Kirk looks over her appreciatively, then turns to Uhura. "What'd she say?"

"She wants to know if she can help us."

"Ask her where the hoverbikes are." Nyota gapes at him as his stare lingers on the girl's curves and wants to point out to him that the hoverbikes _are not_ under the girl's clothing.

"Stop oogling her. She's not an object and for god's sake, Jim, she's a child!"

"I know _that_. Geez, Uhura," he glances at her, offended that he would even think of the girl that way. He's got some modicum of decency, at least some of the time. "I'm merely appreciating beauty when I see it. You can tell her I said that. Now ask her where the hoverbikes are."

"Do you know where the hoverbikes are? The Captain wishes to go for a ride."

The girl nods. "I will take you there."

They follow the girl. Uhura catches Kirk admiring the girl's posterior and she rolls her eyes. "You're such a pig."

"What did Spock say to you that has turned you into this militant feminist?"

Uhura glances at Spock, hoping to gauge his reaction. He stares at her intently, waiting for her answer.

"Some people dislike being treated as merely a body, Captain," she replies, keeping her gaze on Spock. She notes with satisfaction that he looks away.

Kirk looks back and forth between them, wondering exactly when they were going to resolve this fight so this awkwardness would subside.

"You know, I think I recognize this hallway," Kirk says.

"How comforting," Uhura quips.

"The hoverbikes are in here," the girl says, opening a door.

"Thank you," Uhura tells her, giving her a smile. The girl offers a small smile back before looking down and walking away, soon disappearing from their sight.

The room they enter looks like a garage, fitted with only the best hoverbikes and tools. Uhura never really cared for cars, hover or otherwise, or bikes for that matter, but even she can appreciate the beauty of the bikes before her. There are two wide, garage style doors that lead outside.

Then she notices that there are only two hoverbikes.

"Captain?"

"Yes?"

"There are only two bikes."

"So there are. Excellent observation, Lieutenant."

"There are three of us, Captain."

"So there'll be one on one bike and two on the other. Is there a problem, Uhura?"

Kirk is grinning at her, knowing that she is upset with Spock and she knows Kirk is hoping that she'll hop on the back with him.

She smiles at him. "Not at all, Captain. I'll ride with Commander Spock, if that isn't a problem."

Kirk looks thwarted. Spock raises his eyebrow.

"Okay, so where do you think he keeps his helmets?" she asks them.

They find his helmets lined up on the wall and Uhura is amused that he has more helmets than bikes. Sybok is seriously vain, she thinks. Most people, she reasoned, would have one helmet, maybe two.

Sybok has seven. Perhaps one for every day of the week. They are all in different colors and with different designs on them. Uhura is pretty sure that there isn't a basic black helmet among them.

She waits for Spock to get on the hoverbike, acquainting himself with the controls.

"Fascinating," he murmurs.

"You'll enjoy yourself," Kirk says. "I had one before one I enlisted."

"Somehow I'm not surprised, Captain," Spock replies.

Uhura swings one leg over the bike, seating herself behind Spock.

"You're going to have to put your arms around Spock," Kirk says, opening the doors.

"I know," Uhura says calmly.

She scoots herself closer to Spock, wrapping her arms around him, pressing herself into his back. She is still mad at him, furious in fact. She wants to drag her nails down his torso, just to make him flinch, but knows that he wouldn't feel a thing, both emotionally and physically. He was stronger than she was and she doubted that he would even feel the scrape of her fingernails against his skin and probably wouldn't allow himself to register the sensation even if he could. Still, it's better than getting on the back of a bike with Jim Kirk, who she would imagine would be a little grabby, and while she's mad at Spock, she certainly doesn't have a death wish and doesn't imagine that the Captain does, either. She also imagine that her riding with Kirk would anger Spock, probably enough for him to freak out on both of them and she really doesn't need that right now.

She is rewarded with the feeling of his intaking a breath. She smiles to herself. Good.

Make him be tortured. Make him feel.

It's cruel, to be sure, but it was cruel to hear the implication in his words.

"Ready?" Kirk asks them.

"Yes, Captain," Spock says tensely.

"Great!" Kirk exclaims. "Spock, have you ever driven one of these babies before?"

"I was not aware we were on infants, Captain."

Kirk rolls his eyes. "Okay, let me rephrase. Have you ever been on a hoverbike, Mr. Spock?"

"Yes, Captain. I am fully capable of riding this hoverbike."

Kirk's eyebrows shoot up, his face comical in its surprise. "Seriously? You've ridden a hoverbike before?"

Spock nods. "Yes, I have," in a voice that one uses with a particularly slow child.

It is Nyota's turn to be surprised. She would never have guessed that Spock, her former professor, the man who knows every Starfleet regulation by heart, would have ridden a hoverbike.

It was practically _illogical_.

But also incredibly arousing. The thought of Spock with a leather jacket—it would have to be black—snug fitting, slightly worn jeans, and sunglasses that screamed bad-ass, on a hoverbike was very stimulating.

She tries not to think about it. She is mad at him. He hasn't apologized for his behavior, for the words he said, and just because he would look damn fine wearing a leather jacket, his legs straddling the hoverbike, didn't make the sting go away.

"That's a story we'll have to hear someday. But right now we've got a mountain range to get down."

Spock nods. Kirk gets on his hoverbike, starting the engine. Spock starts his as well and Nyota is surprised by how quiet they are. There is only a slight hum, the whirring of a particularly noisy computer.

"Damn," Kirk says. "Mine was a lot louder."

Somehow, Nyota was not surprised that at some point in his life, Kirk had owned a hoverbike.

"What model was your bike, Captain?"

"An Abrams 755. Gave up the bike when I enlisted in Starfleet."

Spock nods knowledgeably. "The Abrams 700 series were particularly loud, wanting to emulate the explosion of the spark plug meeting the gasoline of the original motorcycles."

Kirk looks at Spock as if he just spouted Russian. "You _do_ know about hoverbikes."

"Yes, I am knowledgeable in most models."

"Holy. Hell."

"Captain?"

"Spock, you don't find hoverbikes, to be, well, illogical?"

Spock raises his eyebrow. "Why would I find a transportation method illogical?"

Kirk just shakes his head. "Never mind. We need to get going and we can have this discussion later."

He drives out of the garage-like area, Spock and Nyota following him.

The sun is bright, Nyota has to squint in order to see. She never considered her eyes to be sensitive, but they are in this sunlight. It's hot, but a dry heat, actually very pleasant.

They're going too fast to really notice their surroundings, other than to take note of the makeshift trail to the bottom of the mountain range that exits, the limited vegetation that is growing, the sharp curves of the path down the mountain.

"Nyota?" There are intercoms, not unlike the one she wears on the _Enterprise_, in the helmets.

She is surprised that he is even talking to her. His voice is calm, and she wonders if the contrition she is hearing in his voice is real or if she's just making it up in the hopes of an apology.

"Yes, Spock?" she says just a little bit more than wearily, not wanting to have another argument.

"I wanted to apologize for my words earlier today. They were...unacceptable."

It is contrition, with just an element of shame.

As a linguist, a xenolinguist at that, Nyota Uhura knew that often words hurt way more than actions, that bruises could fade, cuts could heal, but words could cut deep, never showing a wound yet leaving one all the same. They could be engraved forever in one's mind, seeping their hurt for all eternity. Words couldn't be taken back; they became part of the world once said, refusing to be forgotten.

Sometimes, Nyota Uhura hated words.

"Nyota?" Spock says tentatively.

"Did you mean it?" she asks him quietly.

"Of course not!" His words are harsh, for a Vulcan. To anyone else it would sound as if he was talking about the sand beneath them, but Nyota heard the clipped tone he applied to the syllables, the whisper of emotion that now, more than ever, was an underlying current in his voice.

"Okay," she says.

"Okay?" Spock questions.

She forgets, sometimes, that he doesn't understand. Or rather, he doesn't comprehend. He knows that her response is a human response, however, he doesn't comprehend it. He can't quantify it, he can't translate it. He is lost, and it terrifies him, the inability to understand, and she hastens to explain for him, to make him see.

"I accept your apology, Spock."

"I had expected to discuss this matter more with you, Nyota," he tells her.

"I don't think there is much to discuss, is there? You are under a lot of stress, dealing with your brother, these talks, Jim, your grief, all of it. You snapped. It happens to the best of us. I just happened to be there."

"It was unacceptable for me to make the implications that I did."

"Yes, it was. But you won't do it again, will you?"

"No."

"There you are. End of discussion."

He digests this. He remembers his parents fighting, rather, what his father called discussing and what his mother called arguing, but what he knew to be fighting. Sometimes it would go on for days, the silence filling their house as his father avoided their home and stayed at the Embassy on Terra and his mother would suddenly become obsessed with her translation work. Then, suddenly, one of them would give up and they would start talking, as if nothing had ever happened. These fights were few and far between, mostly happening when they had a "difference of opinion" regarding the upbringing of their son, but they happened enough to make an impression, enough to make him wish to never fight with Nyota, ever.

"Will you talk with me?" he asks her.

Her lips purse in confusion. He can't see any of this, instead he looks straight ahead to the path and part of him is grateful for this. He is not sure if he could handle watching her face, showing the emotions that he causes in her but cannot express in himself. Yet part of him wishes he could see her face, so he could see what pleases her and what doesn't, what he should say and what he should stay away from.

"What do you mean?" she asks.

"When humans get mad they distance themselves from each other, not speaking, until they are able to control their emotions."

She thinks for a second. "Oh, you mean 'the silent treatment.' No, Spock, I'm not going to give you 'the silent treatment' all over some stupid comment that we should just forget about."

He feels relieved by this, realizing belatedly that this was a concern for him. "I did not want to discontinue talking with you, Nyota."

She smiles, wrapping her arms just a little tighter around him, wriggling against his back. "Just talking?"

His breath intakes again and his mouth goes dry, his body bringing to life what his mind refuses to acknowledge. He wants her hands to drift southward, he wants her to caress his ears with her lips as she caresses him with her hands. He wants Jim to go on this stupid little adventure by himself, so he can have Nyota.

He wants, he desires, he craves, and it shocks him.

He doesn't answer her question; he cannot lie to her and tell her that all he wants to do is talk when really all he wants to do is make her scream his name, nor can he put into words the feelings she manifests in him.

She senses that there is something different about him and her grip on him loosens. "Spock? Are you okay?"

"I am fine, Lieutenant."

"Why are you pulling rank, all of a sudden?"

"We are on a mission. Familiarity between officers is detrimental."

"Oo-kay. So are you just going to ignore the fact that ten seconds ago you were ready to jump me? I heard you, you know. Your intake of breath, your breathing slightly faster than it normally is. I even felt your temperature go up and your heart rate increase. The blood was pounding in your veins, Spock and it all had to go somewhere."

He feels his jaw clench. He wishes to tell her that 'jump' is not a wholly accurate term. He would instead prefer 'picking her up while having her legs wrap around his waist while he pushes her against a wall,' but he also recognizes that this sentiment is, in fact, not an actual verb.

"We are on a mission, Lieutenant Uhura."

"Okay, Commander. I'll strive to remember that."

Her voice is dripping with sarcasm and he knows he deserves it. He deserves every punch she throws at him. He's being illogical and he knows not why, only that he is, and that if he doesn't solve this matter soon, he will either rape Nyota or possibly kill himself. He is going insane, slowly but surely and he is not entirely sure how or why.

As irritated as she is at him, she is more hurt and confused about the constant shifts in his persona. One minute he is the Spock that visits her bedroom at all hours of the night, the Spock that tells her that he's hurt, the Spock that sometimes she forgets is actually Vulcan. Then he shifts, like a kaleidoscope turned, turning into the cold, efficient, emotionaless professor she knew at the Academy, the Captain for all of a few hours who watched Vulcan be destroyed, the Commander on the bridge who sometimes forgets that his shift is over.

She can't reconcile herself with the two Spocks. She thought she could, but she can't. She can't keep up with the constant switching, can't suddenly go from Nyota to Lieutenant Uhura in the blink of an eye. She know he can and she envies him for it, but she knows she can't.

She is, after all, only human.


	13. Chapter 13

**Okay, unfortunately have to make this quick since I have to go to work...AtanaM, mhgood, you guys are amazing. Despite the fact that I send you my chapters at all hours of the night, you still manage to beta them within the day and you guys are better than netflix. Thank you to all of the Vulcan language dictionaries and language sites out there-you guys saved my life. And thank you to everyone reading this, because your reviews make me smile :)**

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Nyota's grandmother remembered a time when Dar-es-Salaam was the biggest city in Tanzania, one of the biggest cities in the Eastern portion of the United States of Africa. Outside of Dar-es-Salaam and its urban sprawl, that, Nyota's grandmother stipulated, was where you saw what Africa really was, in all of her glory, without the bells and whistles of the Federation. There would be cities still untouched by time, bazaars filled with spices and animals and people yelling. Everything and everyone was in perpetual motion, there was a constant symphony of sound. Anything could be bought in these places; a cure for bone ache, a chicken for dinner, vermilion fabric that would make an amazing skirt, earrings that had made their way from Egypt whose price could be haggled over.

That, Bibi told her, was Africa. Not the concrete jungle with its supermarkets and shopping malls where Nyota grew up.

This colony, with its constant sound and motion reminded Nyota of her Bibi's stories of an Africa before Federation interest in the continent, though she doubts very much that it was quite like this.

Urban planning is a foreign concept here. Houses ere built wherever there is room, roads more like winding paths. Vulcans wander around, conversing with one another, adding to the cacophony. Similar and different, familiar and strange.

Not unlike Spock, Nyota thinks wryly.

Kirk takes in the sights around him.

'You're not in Iowa anymore, Toto,' he thinks to himself. He had spoken with Sybok about the colony briefly. There is a bartering system as an economy, no system of money established. Disagreements ended as quickly as they began, a symbol of the turbulent nature of the colonists. As he watches two Vulcan men almost get into a fist fight over bartering a loaf of bread for a slab of meat, Kirk realizes Sybok wasn't exaggerating.

He never realized that he would actually prefer Vulcans to be like Spock.

Spock envies them.

They can do what he fundamentally cannot; readily and completely express emotion.

His human side hates them for it and he finds, much to his dismay, that his Vulcan side cannot quell the anger rising in him.

As he watches a Vulcan woman smile at a man for offering her kaasa and watches the man smile back at her, he wishes he could do the same for Nyota. Instead of offering her just a small quirk of the lips, he wishes to offer her a full smile, like the smiles he has always been the recipient but not the giver of. He wants to express his anger, express his frustration, express his desire, his love, instead of constantly feeling he is less than Vulcan for wishing to project emotion.

He finds himself torn, wishing that he was like them yet being so grateful that he isn't. He wants to let go and he wants to keep holding onto his control as much as he is able and he is unsure how to reconcile the two sides of himself.

His grip tightens on the gears of the bike, wishing that he were back in his rooms, meditating, instead of being pulled out into this mess.

She notices the language first.

She has always noticed language first. She knew the difference between the Beirut and the Cairo diplomats in her father's office, she knew the difference between Traditional and Golic Vulcan the first day of Vulcan I and found herself going to see a Commander Spock that afternoon, after Commander Billings practically forced her out of Vulcan I and into Spock's Vulcan III class, and she knew the difference between Vulcan and Romulan that fateful day on the _Enterprise_.

The cadences are the first thing she notices. She is accustomed to hearing Vulcan spoken with every syllable given equal stress, spoken as if following an internal metronome. It was always, to Nyota, an exact language, an even language. It is logical and precise and orderly. It isn't messy, like a lot of Earth languages. She doesn't feel as if she is constantly flirting, like the natural tones of the Orion language. It isn't harsh, like Klingon. It's beautiful.

"_Dungi mah-tor nash-veh reh sazh na'deh kap."_

"_Ra?!? Por shinsarat. Keh sazh."_

"_Rai. Nam-tor du vi vazgau du s'nash-veh..."_

The heated conversation she overhears between two Vulcan men reminds her that she has to throw everything she ever learned about the Vulcan language out the door. It's harsh, full of emotion. Gone is the gentle meter of cadence, replaced by syllables beholden to emotion. She wonders if the words themselves have changed because of the emotion. It would make a fascinating journal article, examining if there are any differences in definitions now that there is the element of emotional connotation. Are some words used more than others now, granted the concept of emotional connotation exists? Are there varying degrees of emotion and corresponding words now?

Her head is spinning with questions and her curiosity is demanding to be satiated.

"Sybok apparently has a garage somewhere that he uses...he told me I could store the bikes there."

"Captain, there is the very good possibility that someone will steal these bikes, given the lack of a judicial code on this planet," Spock reminds him.

Kirk gives him a look. "Do you really think that these people are going to steal Sybok's bikes? I don't think these are unintelligent Vulcans, Spock."

"But the judicial code--"

"Sometimes there are things in place of a judicial code. Or rather, people in place of a judicial code, Spock. Your brother is one of them. Believe me, no one is going to steal the hoverbikes of Sybok. Not unless they've got a death wish."

Spock nods once. Logically, Kirk is wrong, but Spock senses this is a situation that defies logic, a situation that Kirk knows from experience.

Not for the first time, he envies the Captain. While Kirk was developing as a normal human adolescent, Spock was studying to gain admittance to the Vulcan Science Academy. He had no friends, was unfamiliar with the concept of "partying" until he came to Starfleet and his roommate laughingly explained it to him. The only dance he knew was the waltz, thanks to his mother, who thought it was necessary, given all the social functions at the embassy. He could converse in a number of languages, but he couldn't flirt with a girl, not like Kirk. Kirk could flirt with Nyota, make her smile even when she was exasperated with him. He wants to, needs to prove that he is the worthier man, the better candidate for her smiles. He needs to make things right between him and Nyota; he needs her, needs her to understand that he is drowning in a fire and he doesn't know how to make it stop.

The colony has nothing on the palace in terms of labyrinthine qualities, but after dropping Sybok's name a couple of times, they are able to find it.

"It's going to be a miracle if we're able to find our way back," Nyota says with a lace of exasperation in her voice.

"We'll be able to find it. Now come on, let's go check out this colony."

They walk aimlessly around, examining the world going on around them. Spock finds the exercise frustrating, unused to walking without a purpose. He knows intellectually that they are examining the city, but everyone is walking as if they have nowhere to be, no purpose, no meaning.

It perturbs him.

They pass a Vulcan man and woman, he wearing a caftan of denim blue and she a revealing toga-like dress of persian pink, walking hand in hand. Spock raises his eyebrows, yet they act like they are doing nothing out of the ordinary, nothing that would warrant censure. The woman then turns to her partner, upturning her face. He leans down to her, kissing her full on the mouth. Spock looks away as if he was just caught in an act of voyeurism, and while Uhura and Kirk advert their eyes, their faces do not not show the same emotion of embarrassment that Spock feels. Instead, Nyota smiles and Kirk smirks.

They can hear laughter from two men playing 3D chess outside of a place that Uhura explains to Kirk is like a coffee shop on Earth, except it has cocoa drinks.

"Cocoa drinks?"

"Yeah, like chocolate milk, hot chocolate, chocolate milkshakes, you get the idea."

"Why chocolate?"

"It produces the same effects that alcohol does in humans."

"Seriously? You mean that Spock can drink us all under the table, but hand him a Hershey bar and he turns silly?"

"You got it."

They walk past the laughing men, Kirk pausing every so often to ask Uhura to identify something when Uhura stops in front of a vendor selling jewelry.

"These are beautiful!" she exclaims in Vulcan.

The man smiles widely. "I am pleased the lady likes my humble wears. For you, pretty lady, I lower the price."

Uhura shakes her head. "I'm just looking, thanks."

"A pretty lady should adorn herself with beautiful jewelry. It is only right. These earrings are you, my lady. See?" He holds up a pair of filigree hoop earrings, made of a metal that resembled silver.

Uhura fingers them. "They're amazing," she murmurs.

"You should buy them. They are 30 credits on the Federation market, but for you I will part with them for less. It is not right to deny yourself of your desires."

She considers it. "How much less?"

He consults a PADD. "For you, lady, I will trade it for the equivalent of 25 credits. Does the lady have folu? Or gahv?"

Kirk speaks up. "Sybok gave me some stones to trade with. Are any of these folu or gahv?" He butchers the last one, but Uhura excuses it. She's heard worse pronunciations and Kirk never pretended he knew anything about languages. He shows her the stones.

"Folu and gahv are turquoise and amythest respectively. These stones are," she says, pointing to them.

"Then buy the earrings, Uhura."

She shakes her head. "We might need those stones for something later," she tells Kirk. "No, thank you," she tells the vendor.

The vendor shakes his head sadly. "You wound me, lady. These earrings are made for you, and you alone."

Uhura smiles at him and walks away. Kirk notices Spock staring intently at the earrings.

"The vendor does have good taste," Kirk says quietly. "They'd look good on her."

Spock looks sharply at him and Kirk is surprised by the amount of emotion in Spock's face. He looks angry, inexplicably so. Spock takes a deep breath and his face clears.

"Yes, they would."

"Human women tend to forget a lot of mistakes, if given gifts," Kirk says innocently.

Spock raises his eyebrow. "Really, Captain?"

Kirk nods. "It's amazing what jewelry and flowers can do."

Spock turns to the vendor. "Folu for the earrings."

The man looks at him in horror. "Sir! I cannot let these go for the price you demand! I might as well give them away. Folu heh gahv."

"Folu."

The man places a hand over his heart. "You wound me, sir! Gahv."

Spock is tired of the haggling. "Fine. Gahv."

They complete the transaction and Spock soon has the earrings in his hand. Nyota will love them, he thinks. She will love him for getting them. Things will be become normal between them again.

Kirk shakes his head. "You kind of suck at the whole haggling thing."

"It has been a while since I have done it, Captain."

"Still, the object is to get the price as low as possible. Not to run out of patience half-way through."

As they pass a man peddling retractable fencing swords, Spock wonders how quickly he could incapacitate Kirk and silence him.

The thought, accompanied by very violent images to illustrate his thoughts, is comforting, inexplicably and shockingly so.

Spock tucks the earrings into his pants pocket, wanting to wait for a more private moment to give them to Nyota. Perhaps she would be overcome with affection for him, and it would be illogical for him to jeopardize their newly found harmony by denying her the chance to express her affections. That thought almost brings a smile to his face.

"Well, I think we've seen everything, have we not, Captain?" Uhura asks Kirk. The sun is setting on the city, casting shadows. The smell of meat, signaling the start of dinner perfumes the air and reminds them of how hungry they are, but they should head back. The shadows make everything possess an undercurrent of sinisterness.

Kirk nods. "Yeah, Uhura. I think we've seen all we can see in a day. We should be heading back."

Uhura raises her eyebrow and Kirk wonders if now would be an opportune time to tell her she looks like her boyfriend.

"And exactly where is back, Captain?" she says with a small smile.

"You know," Kirk waves a hand around. "back to the hoverbikes."

Uhura rolls her eyes. "We're never going to make it back to the palace."

"I don't believe in no-win scenarios."

"We _know_, Captain. Of all of the members of the _Enterprise_, I think Spock and I know that the best."

Kirk laughs. "Probably."

They walk, hoping to find something familiar, a landmark to guide them.

"Captain, the city does not seem to follow the architecture of city planning of any of the 827 worlds that I am familiar with; Terran, Vulcan or otherwise. Our chances of finding our point of destination are less than 3%."

"Thanks for the voice of confidence, Spock," Kirk says sarcastically. "Anything else you want to inform me about? A meteor about to hit the planet, maybe?" With that, Kirk determinedly turns a corner, practically marching down the street. Uhura and Spock walk behind him, letting him lead them to nowhere. He is, after all, the Captain. Uhura watches Vulcan children play in the street, vendors pack up their wares, women sweeping the dust from the doorways, gossiping with neighbors. She wishes they could stay longer—this place is so exotic, so unlike anything she has every seen before and she wants to learn more of it.

The scene changes—the streets becoming narrower, the smell of meat and chocolate becoming more pungent and slightly more rotten. There is the definite stench of garbage in the air that was missing from their travels in the city during the day. The buildings look more run down, there is graffiti written, in Vulcan, on the walls. There is the distinct absence of children playing in the street and women gossiping as they sweep the floor.

Kirk gets the sinking feeling that they have left the genteel part of the city and have entered the seedier side. Passersby look at them suspiciously. Business is conducted in hushed tones, covertly. There are more than a few women that look like prostitutes, and they pass what Uhura tells him seem to be gambling halls. Kirk can't really explain his feeling of unease other than to say that the vibe of the city has changed, changing from being a vibrant center of business and trade to something slightly more sinister, something definitely more underground, more criminal.

They are approached by a Vulcan man who looks to be about middle aged. He is dignified; other Vulcans call out his name in greeting, offering him gifts. He nods to the greeters, waves away the ones hoping the gain a favor from him. He has business to attend to today.

_"__Nam-tor dular khart-lan Kirk, zhel-lan Spock heh ot-lan Uhura?__"_

Kirk appraises the Vulcan. He is dressed in a forest green robe, the collar opened to the chest. His face his hardened, his eyes carefully disguising his emotions. This is a man who has seen a lot, knows much more the underbelly of humanoid behavior than most people can even dream of. He is tall, most Vulcans are, and muscular. There was no way Kirk was going to win a physical fight.

"Lieutenant, please translate," Kirk says, not taking his eyes off the Vulcan.

The Vulcan's gaze flicks to Uhura. He looks her over appreciatively and Kirk hopes to god that Uhura doesn't notice. It might be enough to set her off, provoke her into saying something rash given the mood she's been in lately and Kirk really didn't want to have to defend her, if this guy decided to teach her a lesson.

Luckily, she doesn't. She looks over to Kirk. "He's asking if we're Captain Kirk, Commander Spock and Lieutenant Uhura."

Kirk nods to her. "Think he knows Standard?"

"I know Standard, Captain. I am also familiar with Orion, Andorian, Romulan and Klingon," the Vulcan says in heavily accented Standard.

Kirk turns his head back to the Vulcan. "Okay, then. Glad we're on the same page. Yes, I'm Captain Kirk, this is Commander Spock and Lieutenant Uhura."

The Vulcan nods. "I am Shylock, leader of this corner of the city. You are guests of Sybok's, are you not?"

"Yes, we are," Kirk responds.

"You have traveled on the wrong path, Captain Kirk. You would be wise to turn around. This part of the city is not safe for you."

"What do you mean?"

Shylock continued to stare at Kirk. "Neither Sybok nor I can be responsible for your fate if you venture farther into this part of the city. Turn back, Captain."

Kirk was never very good at taking orders, but he could make exceptions, he decided with one look at Shylock's expression. "Okay, we'll go back. Do you know where we can find where Sybok keeps his hoverbikes when he's in town?"

Shylock nods. "Yes. I will take you there."

They walk back towards the better part of the city.

"You are Sybok's brother," Shylock says to Spock.

"Yes," Spock says guardedly.

Shylock nods. "You look as though you could almost be his twin, Spock. When I first saw you, I thought I was looking at your brother. But your eyes are different. Human," he says, bluntly. He isn't trying to be cruel, rather just stating a fact, as if he were telling Kirk his eyes are blue or Uhura's are brown.

"What do you know of Sybok?" Kirk asks.

Shylock appraises him again. "Sybok and I are business partners," he says in a voice that explicitly states the matter is closed.

He takes them back to where they began and Spock is surprised the bikes are still in their same location.

"You should make this your last visit to the city," Shylock tells them. "She is beautiful, but she can bite. Stay in the palace."

He doesn't add _o r__else_, he doesn't need to. The implication is clear. This _will_ be their last visit to the city. Here, there be monsters.

* * *

They fasten on their helmets and speed away, quiet on their journey back. Nyota holds Spock more tightly than she should, but she doesn't care. Shylock intimidated her and she isn't intimidated easily. This whole place is really freaking her out.

_Pull yourself together, Uhura. You're going to see _**a lot **_worse things out there in the universe. Stop being so damn jumpy!_ She scolded herself.

She can't get their speech patterns out of her head. How harsh _kh_ could sound, if applied with the right amount of feeling, how _s_'s could feel like caresses. How much more alive the language seemed. She wonders if this is what it sounded like in the time before Surak, wonders if something linguistically was lost when they started to gain so much control over themselves. It was so...weird, seeing Vulcans hold hands and kiss and laugh and argue. She is so used to reminding herself to never offer her hand to a Vulcan because it is distasteful, that they never eat meat, or chocolate. That she shouldn't take offense if they seem aloof, it is just how they are, and not a slight against her, personally. Everything she was ever taught in a Vulcan culture seminar or class is suddenly out the window.

It's a disorienting feeling.

The trip back doesn't take nearly as long as the trip down did, Nyota thinks to herself. She is surprised to see the blinding white of the palace walls appear before them and she looks forward to getting something to eat, taking a long shower and calling it a day.

They park the bikes back in the garage and hang the helmets back on the wall. She goes to leave, not saying a word to Spock, when she feels his hand on her arm.

"Nyota," he says.

She looks at him. Kirk stops, looking back and forth between them, a look of worry on his face. He remembers something, breaks out into a grin, waves to them and walks away.

"I have something for you," he says sheepishly. He reaches into his pocket and holds out the earrings. The very earrings she had coveted in the bazaar, but didn't buy.

"Oh, Spock," she says, running her fingers over the earrings.

"You do find them pleasing, yes?"

She smiles fully at him. "Yes, Spock, I find them pleasing. Very much so."

He releases a breath he was not aware he was holding. "It would please me if you would wear them."

She kisses his cheek. "Of course I will. I'll wear them to Sybok's party."

A wave of pleasure crashes over him. It will mark her as his, a reminder to his brother, to Kirk, to everyone at the party that Nyota is his, and his alone.

He kisses her full on the mouth, leaving her breathless when they part. "Good," he tells her.

She kisses him again. "Thank you for the earrings," she whispers against his lips, before he kisses her and she trails her fingers along rim of his ears.

He shudders, the sensation too much. "Nyota," he breathes, calculating the distance to his room, realizing that her room his closer, adjusting his calculations. Trailing his fingers along her collar bone in the way he's learned makes her breath hitch.

She smiles against his mouth. "We really shouldn't do this here," she says against his lips.

"You are correct," he says before kissing her. "It will take precisely," he kisses her neck before continuing, "four minutes and forty seconds," he becomes distracted by a pulse point on her neck, pressing it to her neck quickly before continuing, "to walk to your chambers, if we hurry." He kisses the spot where her neck meets her ear, before biting it gently.

She forgets what she was going to say.

"You kiss by the book, dear brother," Sybok drawls, smiling like a cat who swallowed a canary. They both jump, startled by the interruption, turning to face him.

Uhura tilts her chin to meet Sybok's smirking gaze. "Sybok," she says in a voice that suggests that what she really means is "go the hell away."

"Lieutenant, Spock. I trust you were able to entertain yourselves while I was gone?"

Spock give a curt nod. "The day was informative. I trust your business went well?"

"Unexpectedly so. We will be having the party tonight, brother. It's a little short notice, but spontaneity has always been one of my better qualities," he laughs.

"Well, lots to do, little brother. Lieutenant Uhura, Spock, I suggest you both get ready. Formal dress. Just ring for the servants if you need any help," he called over his shoulder as he walked away.

Nyota turned to Spock. "Well, _that_ was a mood killer."

Spock ran a hand through his hair. He frowns slightly, wondering why he would do such a thing before flattening his hair again. He has to find out what is going on. Because he was outside of the palace for the majority of the day, he finds it logical to suspect the atmosphere. Perhaps there was a spore causing his irrational behavior. "Indeed it was," he replied, his tone clipped.

"I should go get ready. At least I got the earrings," she said with a smile.

The corner of his mouth upturned. "I am pleased you like them, Nyota."

She leans into him, kissing his cheek. "I'll see you in a couple hours, Spock."


	14. Chapter 14

**Thirty pages and 8,100 words later and this chapter of epicness is over. (Don't worry, that doesn't mean that Nar is over. Far from it.) There are lots of people I need to thank, so lets get to it.**

**My very good friend, Nick, whose taste in music lets me write. Romeo + Juliet and the Firefly episode Shindig, my main inspirations for the party, Heroes, because every writer needs to do research to make sure she has the picture just so in her head. Elizawriter, for putting up with my "stage fright", my beta comments that sometimes make no sense, my Latin and long letters. AtanaM, for constantly pushing me to add more description for her amazing comments for the last scene—it's ten times better because of you, mhgood, for making sure my grammar etc. is correct and lastly, all the people who made it through this long A/N. Thanks for reading!**

He could kill his brother.

Painfully, slowly, with such slow and precise execution that his brother would be begging for mercy, begging for death just to end the suffering. Life would equate itself with pain for his brother, and Spock would take sadistic pleasure in that fact. He wants to hear the sickening crack of bones breaking, smell the copper of his blood. It would be...satisfying.

He is skilled in the art of Suus Mahna. He could do it—he could prove to his brother that it is not wise to interrupt an intimate moment and not be prepared to suffer the consequences.

He is tempted, oh so tempted. He stops in the hallway, contemplating going back and proving to his brother that he is better, stronger, the more worthier mate for Nyota. Did his brother think he is really that stupid, that blind, that he couldn't see the way his brother looked at Nyota? That his brother wanted Nyota for his own? He thinks back to the day that he saw his brother touch Nyota's arm at the pool.

_Mine_.

'She is _mine,'_ he thinks to himself. The savagery in his internal voice is enough to shake him out of his contemplation and hurry to his chamber, determined to quell the inexplicable rage inside of him before this ridiculous, illogical party of his brother's.

He hates social gatherings. He has hated social gatherings from the embassy parties his mother made him attend, to the faculty gatherings at Starfleet. He constantly feels out of place, as if he is an actor in a play yet does not know the lines he is supposed to speak. He reminds himself that Nyota will be there, that she will help him, will whisper the lines in his ear, if he can continue the metaphor. He must keep an eye on his brother as well, and make sure he doesn't make any untoward advances upon Nyota and give Spock a reason to kill him.

He walks to his room, noting that the temperature has risen 3.47 degrees. It is uncomfortably hot now, illogical given the fact that it is twilight. The sun is setting, the temperature should be falling, not rising. He concludes, then, that it is his internal temperature and not the external temperature and thus cause for concern.

He wonders if the ardor he felt for Nyota earlier has physically manifested itself. He has read in medical journals that humans, when mentally overtaxed, will manifest physical symptoms of their unrest. It is psychosomatic, he believes the word is. That must be it. He is half-human and it is possible the extreme stress he is under is enough to provoke such a reaction in him. There is nothing to suggest that he has come into contact with a virus or a bacterium. He has not had the opportunity to test the atmosphere and he is eaten very little during his stay planetside. Thus, it must be a physical manifestation of his...desires.

He has heard human males using the term 'a cold shower' helping to remedy unwanted or inopportune arousal. Given that he has no other solution for his problem, as meditation has proven increasingly unhelpful, he decides to give it a try. He enters his rooms, casting off his shoes. Normally, he places them in the same spot, facing the same direction every time he takes them off, but he simply does not care this time. He wants his shoes _off_, his shirt _off_, his pants _off_, and thus they are cast off, without a care, without being folded.

The rebellion feels good.

He makes the water as cold as he can stand, surprised by how nice it feels. He braces his hands on the wall, letting the water cascade down his tense shoulders, his back, before he straightens and stands under the spray, feeling the sensation of the water on his chest, trailing down his abdomen.

He shudders at the sensation. The water feels like Nyota's hands, trailing along his skin, unaware of the fire that ignites in the wake of its path. He has wondered before what it would be like to have her in the shower. The thought would present itself in his consciousness like a delicious, forbidden secret, a fleeting moment he would enjoy before squelching it, embarrassed that he was having such irrational desires, such illogical fantasies. Yet they persisted ever since she complained as his teacher's aide of the showers in her dormitory being closed for repairs.

"_And of course it will take at least two weeks for them to be fixed. I have great respect for Starfleet, but they are masters of bureaucracy and red tape."_

_He nodded, not trusting himself to speak. His mind was filled with images of her wrapped in a towel, the water still trailing along her skin. _

"_They're at least letting us use the showers in the gym, but it's been crazy walking halfway across campus just to take a shower and try to make it to classes and choral practice."_

_He steepled his fingers, willing himself not to offer the uses of his own shower, trying desperately to get the image of her walking around his rooms, in a smaller towel than in his previous mental images, he noted, with her damp hair curling from the steam of the shower, smiling up at him and thanking him for the use of his shower. In his mind he pulls her closer, not minding, even being secretly pleased by the fact that she is still slightly wet from the shower, trailing his fingers across her arms, sliding up to her bare shoulders as he leans in, kissing her and whispering, his mouth against her ear "you are very welcome." Suddenly the towel disappears and--_

"_Commander? Spock? Are you okay?"_

_He blinks for .023 seconds longer than is necessary, making a mental note that he would have to reschedule to allot for at least two more hours of meditation. He takes a deep breath, "I am fine, Nyota. Have you finished with the exams I asked you to grade?"_

Nyota does not know about his errant thoughts. He has never told her. He is unsure why, now they have embarked upon a romantic relationship, he has kept it to himself, why he has not yet initiated physical intimacy with her and suddenly it seems so asinine that he has not yet done so. He wants to feel the juxtaposition of the coolness of the water and the warmth of Nyota, wants to watch the water flow down her arched back, wants to hear the music of her moans, hear her breathless voice urging him to take her, harder, deeper, ever more forcefully still, intertwined with the steady percussion of the water beating against the shower floor.

The water suddenly feels like ice being pelted on his back. He frowns, knowing that he has not been in the shower that long, approximately six minutes and the water could not have gone uncomfortably cold that quickly. He turns off the water, stepping out of the shower and wrapping a towel around his hips. He glances at the chronos as he goes to find something to wear for the party when he freezes in fear.

It has been exactly 16.5 minutes since he got into the shower.

His internal clock is never wrong. He should have known that he was in the shower for over 16 minutes. There was no reason for him to be in the shower that long, no reason for him not to realize it. Something is wrong, his mind is escaping him.

He must find out what is going on.

He grabs the communicator off the desk.

"Spock to Enterprise," he growls out.

"Chekov to Spock. Vat can I do for you, Kommander?" the Ensign says cheerfully.

"Run scans of the atmospheric composition of planet A-75 and cross reference the composition with all known reactions to both Vulcan and human biology."

"Yes, Kommander."

Spock waits exactly .45 seconds. "_Now,_ Ensign."

"I _am_, Kommander. I am vaiting for ze results."

Spock scowls. He could have done this himself and would have had the results by now.

"Sir, there is nossing to suggest dat there is anything besides ze normal composition of oxygen, hydrogen and nitrogen. There is certainly nossing dat would react to either Wulcan or human biology."

"There has to be something, Ensign," Spock says with a trace of impatience. "Run the scans again and transfer me to the Medical Bay."

"Are you feeling vell, Kommander?"

"That is none of your concern, Ensign. Perform your duties," Spock says sharply.

Chekov mutters something in Russian under his breath. "Aye, Kommander."

Spock hears a click and then McCoy's gruff voice. "Yeah?"

"Doctor McCoy, this is Spock."

"Fantastic. What do you want?" The doctor sounds harassed, as he usually does.

"I am...not feeling well, Doctor."

There is a pause on the other end. "Maybe we should have this conversation in my office. Hold on one sec, Spock."

Spock is familiar with the human practice of asking someone to wait one second, but the duration of one second is at best a very loose interpretation. Doctor McCoy is no exception. It takes him 45 seconds to get to his office.

"Sorry, Spock. Got stopped on my way here by Nurse Chapel. What's going on?"

"I seem to have lost track of 10.5 minutes, Doctor."

"Any other symptoms?"

"My internal temperature has risen. My appetite has abated, it will not be long before it's gone completely. Ensign Chekov has informed me that there is nothing in the atmosphere to provoke a reaction from either humans or Vulcans." He hesitates, wondering if he should continue, tell the doctor of his violent thoughts, his increased libido but decides them to be irrelevant, a result of Sybok and the extreme stress the Vulcan causes. It is not a result of anything biological or environmental.

"What, and you don't trust the Russian wonder kid?" McCoy jokes.

"It is not a matter of trust, Doctor, I simply sought to get an opinion from a medical professional."

"Well, you came to the right place. Send some food and drink samples and I'll take a look at them. You'll probably having a reaction to something planet-side. I'll run some tests and find out."

"Thank you, Doctor."

"Don't mention it. Give my regards to Jim and Uhura."

There is a flash of jealousy and hatred that the doctor has the audacity to mention Nyota's name, but Spock calms himself, reminds himself that the doctor meant nothing by it. It certainly would not be logical to beam up to the Enterprise and beat the doctor to a bloody pulp just for saying Nyota's name.

"I will, Doctor McCoy." He ends the communication, turning to the dresser to find something to wear. He decides on the sufficiently formal black, high collared fitted shirt, black fitted pants and the maroon overcoat embroidered with gold thread. He goes over to the mirror, tugging his collar into place, flatting his hair, when he hears a knock on the door.

He hopes it is Nyota, coming to collect him, so they can walk to the party together. He is more than a little disappointed when he opens the door to find Kirk on the other side, tugging at his shirt. He is dressed similarly to Spock, though his shirt and pants are white and his coat is a cerulean blue with silver embroidery.

"How can you wear this stuff and not feel like you're suffocating?" Kirk complains.

It is evidently a rhetorical question, because Kirk continues. "Uhura's still getting ready. She's an amazing communications officer, don't get me wrong, but she is like all girls, taking forever to get ready."

Spock raises his eyebrow. "Indeed."

"Yeah. Anyway, let's go. She said she would meet us down there."

He is disappointed, hoping to make an entrance, as the human saying goes, with Nyota by his side, but Kirk has already intercepted him and he has no choice but to accompany the Captain.

Spock follows Kirk, who talks the whole way about how much he's looking forward to this party. Spock wishes, intensely, for the Captain to just cease talking, to leave him to his thoughts, to leave him to Nyota.

They can both hear the dull buzz of cocktail conversation as they get closer to the ballroom. They can hear the whisper of an string quintet, the trill of laughter.

"Sounds like a good time," Kirk says to Spock.

"Indeed."

They go into the ballroom and it is an explosion of color. Women seem to be in a subtle contest of who can out-dress whom, the men stand talking amongst themselves, creating a rainbow of robes themselves. They sip chocolate drinks out of martini glasses, there are couples dancing.

Kirk raises his eyebrow. "This is almost tame, for your brother."

Spock does not hear him, does not even glance his way. He is, instead, looking past Kirk's shoulder, to the staircase, where Nyota is descending, where he hears the conversations stop around her, hears the quintet stop there music as they, like he, remains transfixed by her.

She looks for them, biting her lip. Kirk waves and she sees the movement and waves to them, smiling, walking down the stairs faster.

"You are such a lucky bastard," Kirk mutters.

* * *

The girly girl in her is excited at the thought of going to a party.

Every girl loves dressing up, listening to good music and having a good time, Nyota thinks. It is simply a rule of nature. She puts all her energy into getting ready for the party. It's either that, or think about how close she and Spock were to getting rid of all the tension between them. God damn Sybok! She groaned, still feeling his lips against her neck, how amazing it felt--

She shakes her head, as if she can literally shake the thoughts away. She can't think about that right now. Otherwise she might slap Sybok and then jump Spock. Hell, she just might skip over the slapping Sybok part and get right to the jumping.

Which takes her right back to where she began.

She closes the door to her room and turning, notices a box on her bed. She opens it, pulling out a shimmery, beautiful silver dress. It looks like it was made out of stardust. She tries it on eagerly, unable to resist a beautiful party dress. She turns to look at herself in the mirror.

The dress is asymmetrical, with only one strap, leaving her left shoulder bare, a slit in the skirt of the dress on the right side, showing a fair amount of leg, hugging her figure like a second skin.

She feels amazing in it, and it goes perfectly with the earrings Spock bought her. She puts on the earrings, just to make sure, then notices on the dressing table that there are haircare products—shampoo, conditioner and a hair straightener. She smirks a little; this almost, _almost_ makes up for the fact that Sybok interrupted her and Spock together. Her hair was rebelling against her.

She looks at the chronos. She doesn't really have that much time to wash her hair, not if she wants it dry completely, and she still needs to do her makeup. She notices that there is an entire assortment of cosmetics at her disposal, next to the haircare products.

There is a knock on the door.

She hopes it's Spock. She wants him to see her wearing the earrings he bought.

"Who is it?" she calls.

"It's Jim!" she hears him shout. "Are you ready yet?"

She sighs, wishing still that it was Spock. "Not yet. I'll meet you at the party, okay?"

"Okay, I'm going to go collect Spock."

Which means that she has even less time than she thought she did. She quickly but carefully puts on her make-up, choosing to put on some mascara and a little bit of eyeshadow. Her hair she isn't sure what to do with. She decides to brush it out and leave it down, change it up from her customary pony-tail.

Shoes.

Oh god, what is she going to do about shoes?

She looks around and notices that there is a second box next to the dress box. This one is a shoe box, with silver, high heeled strappy sandals in them. They look almost as beautiful as the dress, a work of art in and of themselves.

She knows that they're from Sybok, but they so beautiful and she has nothing else to wear. They fit so perfectly with the earrings that she can't resist. It's perfect, she looks perfect and part of her wants to completely knock the socks off of Spock.

She walks out of her room, down the hallway, realizing that she has no idea where this party is taking place. With any luck, she'll run into one of Sybok's servants.

"T'sai Uhura?" a servant asks her.

"Ha?" she responds in Vulcan.

"I am to take you to the ballroom. If you will follow me," he says.

"Of course," she says.

He leads her to a door. "There will be a small hallway and then you will walk down a staircase to the ballroom."

"Are khart-lan Kirk and zhel-lan Spock already there?"

"I believe they are, t'sai."

She nods and he opens the door and motions for her to go inside. She does, and instantly feels as if she is about to make her way onto a stage.

As she descends the staircase, she feels everyone's eyes on her, hears conversations stopping in midflow, even the quintet stopping their music. It makes her uncomfortable, being the center of attention and all she wants to do is find her friends and get off the metaphorical stage.

She scans the crowd, unable to find them, when she notices a hand wave. It's Kirk, with Spock next to him, his eyes smoldering. She smiles, waves back to them, walking just a little bit faster towards them. She sees Kirk mutter something to Spock, but she isn't sure if Spock even heard him. His eyes remain on her, predatory. She is the only thing he sees right now, she thinks. The only thing he wants. As she walks closer to them, she can see him lick his lips, his eyes darken. He looks dignified in his clothes, like a Vulcan prince. The look he's giving her, though, is anything but dignified and she wonders if Kirk would mind if she and Spock left the party and picked just picked up where they left off in the garage.

"Captain, Spock," she says just a little breathlessly when she joins them.

"Lieutenant," Kirk responds. "You clean up awfully well."

She smiles at him. "Thanks. You don't look so bad yourself."

He tugs at the overcoat. "Yeah? Thanks. Uncomfortable, though. Never thought I would want to wear a Starfleet cadet uniform again, but compared to this, I would gladly put one on."

Nyota looks over to a group of women oogling Kirk. "I think there are more than a few women who would disagree, Captain."

Kirk follows her gaze. "Looks like I better go introduce myself. You know, in the name of Starfleet-Vulcan relations and all of that. Uhura, Spock, if you'll excuse me..."

Nyota laughs and just shakes her head. "That man is incorrigible."

Spock doesn't say a word, but continues to stare at her hungrily, as if he would like nothing more than to devour her where she stood. She swallows.

The music starts up again, this time a waltz.

"Nyota, would you care to dance?" Spock asks her, surprisingly calm, given his facial expression just a moment ago.

"I would love to dance, Spock," she says, shocked that he would ask her. She didn't think he could dance.

He pulls her closer than absolutely necessary for the waltz, but Nyota isn't about to complain. His hand is around her waist, his other hand is cradling hers, his thumb tracing circles in her palm. She wonders how long waltzes are. Hopefully long. Very, very long.

"You are wearing the earrings I gave you," he whispers in her ear.

"Of course," she murmurs. "I said I would."

"They compliment your skin tone."

She smiles. "Thank you."

He is a skilled dancer and she's surprised to learn this. He doesn't strike her as the type to know how to dance.

"My mother taught me," he answers her unspoken question. "She felt it necessary, given how many embassy social functions we were forced to tend because of father's occupation."

Nyota nods in understanding.

The dance ends much too soon for Nyota's liking. A steward comes up to them, offering champagne to Nyota and sukulata for Spock, a drink that seemed to be like crème de cacao, but without the alcohol and served in a martini glass.

Surprisingly, Spock accepted the drink, taking a sip. "Intoxicating beverages serve to enhance one's enjoyment of an experience, do they not, Nyota?" he said to her surprised expression.

"Yes, I suppose they do," she said uncertainly, taking a sip of her champagne.

She turns away from Spock, momentarily distracted by the sound of loud laughter from a Vulcan couple dancing. She watches the Vulcans, still fascinated by the emotions that ran freely across their faces, by how there were more than a few couples making out, holding hands, not one among them being discreet in the Vulcan interpretation of the word.

It doesn't cease to amaze her.

Kirk saunters over to them, just finishing his fourth dance with a Vulcan female, glass of champagne in hand. "Great party," he comments to them.

Both of them murmur and nod, agreeing with the Captain.

"I saw Shylock earlier, talking with Sybok," he notes casually. "Neither of them looked really happy."

"Really?" Nyota asks.

Kirk nods. "Worth looking into. Not sure if it had something to do with our visit into the city or something else. Either way, those two are connected somehow, and I don't think they go to the same gym."

Spock purses his lips. "I'm not sure I understand the observation, Captain."

Kirk smiles. "Never mind, Spock. Chalk it up to a humanism."

Spock nods.

"Hey, is that one of those sulata drinks?" Kirk asks, gesturing to the one in Spock's hand.

"Sukulata, Captain, and yes, it is," Nyota says archly, daring Kirk to say more.

Kirk instead gives Spock a look and claps him on the shoulder. "Didn't think you had it in you," he comments.

Spock raises his eyebrow. "Pardon, Captain?"

Kirk laughs. "Nothing, Spock. I'm going to go talk with Shylock. You two enjoy yourselves. Dance, drink, be merry."

With that, he walks away.

Spock turns to Nyota, taking the champagne flask out of her hand and setting it next to his drink on a table.

"We should obey our Captain's orders," he murmurs, his lips ghosting her ear.

She giggles, the champagne going to her head just a little bit. She nods.

The quintet is playing something slow and sultry, a song Nyota doesn't recognize, but it causes Spock to hold her even closer than during the waltz, his hands at her hips, her arms around his neck.

She wonders if they can leave the party early, if anyone would miss them. She doesn't want to be around these people anymore. She just wants Spock.

"Mind if I cut in, brother?"

Sybok is dressed in a loose dark purple shirt with gold embroidery and dark pants. He smiles cockily, blatantly ogling Nyota.

The look Spock gives him is dark, murderous, sending shivers down Nyota's spine. "Perhaps the next dance, Sybok."

Sybok frowns, displeased with his answer, but accepts it. "The next dance it is, then." He walks away.

"I do not want you dancing with my brother," Spock tells her in Orion.

"I do not wish to dance with your brother," she responds in the same language.

"We are in agreement, then," he says, the corner of his mouth upturning.

"I will have to, you know. It is his party," she tells him.

He nods in understanding. "You are mine, Nyota."

They stop dancing and just look at each other. Their mouths are so close together, Nyota thinks. It would take just a slight turn of her head and to his lips hers, meeting, a dance on the most intimate scale.

'Not here,' she thinks. 'Spock would be mortified.'

So instead she smiles at him, gently, and when the song ends she clings to him slightly, to assure him that if it were in her control, the song wouldn't end.

Sybok comes upon them, barely before the last note dies.

"I believe the next dance is mine," he says with too much enjoyment.

Spock looks at his brother, the murderous look back in his eyes before he kisses Nyota.

It is the kiss she secretly dreams of. She loves it when he kisses her, his careful exploration as if he's trying to learn her. But sometimes she wants him to consume her, to make her lose control with just a kiss, all because of the ardor he can barely contain.

It leaves her breathless, everything she ever thought it could be and more.

"I will be back," he promises her.

He nods curtly to his brother, then steps back.

Sybok holds her just a little bit too closely. She can feel his breath on her neck and it repulses her and she forces herself to forget her current surroundings and remember what it was like to dance with Spock.

"Now, now, Lieutenant, no fair thinking about my brother while you're with me."

"How did you know that?" she asks him, trying to keep the tremor out of her voice.

"Your scent changes when you think about him," he tells her.

She feels her face getting hot.

"Now, now, there's nothing to be embarrassed about. Passion is," he breathes in. "the very essence of life."

Nyota wonders why this song isn't over yet.

"My brother is a lucky man, to have such a passionate woman in his arms tonight."

She looks at him squarely. "Yes, he is."

Sybok smiles at her. "What did he ever do to deserve you?"

She wants to slap him. His voice rubs itself all over her and she squirms under its implications and its innuendos, wants to take a shower and for Spock to make her ever forget there is a Sybok.

The song ends. "Hmmm," Sybok hums, cocking his head to the side. "Pity." She isn't sure if he is referring to the song ending or something else, or perhaps both.

He releases her. "I have a feeling brother dear will be over soon and must just challenge me to a duel if I hold you for a second longer, though it would certainly be worth it," he tells her. He bows, takes her hand, brushes his lips across her knuckles and leaves.

Spock comes up behind her. "Are you well, Nyota?"

She turns into him, wrapping her arms around him. "Yes, I'm fine."

"My brother did not behave inappropriately?"

"Nothing I can't handle, Spock."

He clutches her just a little bit tighter.

* * *

Kirk smiles to himself as he watches his First Officer and Communications Officer dance. Normally he would tease them mercilessly, because they're so damn perfect, so damn right, that he can't help but tease them, but he lets them have this moment, knowing they've both been through hell to get it.

Shylock has finished his conversation with Sybok and is now speaking with a Vulcan female while drinking one of those chocolate drinks he saw Spock drinking earlier. Kirk puts on his most disarming smile, walking up to the Vulcan dressed in scarlet robes. He is not pleased to see Kirk.

"Captain. I see you made it out of the city alive."

"I'm lucky that way."

Shylock looks at him appraisingly. "So I hear. Your reputation precedes you."

Kirk merely shrugs, looking unimpressed. "People either know me before they meet me, or they sure as hell remember me after I leave."

There is a pause before the Vulcan breaks out into booming laughter. "You are an arrogant man, but it is fitting for you, Captain James Kirk."

"And you've got an interesting way of complimenting people, Shylock. I think that puts us on equal footing. Call me Jim."

Shylock nods, considering it. "Jim. How long has Spock been your First Officer?"

"Barely a year. It'll be a year in a couple of months, I think. A question for a question. How long have you lived in that corner of the city?"

"Five years."

Kirk lets the conversation still for a moment, watching Spock and Uhura dance, Sybok talking to them, Spock look as if he's about to kill his brother. "The Federation knows nothing about this planet. It categorizes it as uninhabited."

Shylock merely shrugs. "The Federation is a large organization, Jim. It is not all seeing, nor all knowing. Many things happen in this universe that the Federation knows nothing about."

"Such as?"

"I cannot give specifics. But sometimes trade does not go as planned, cargo takes a detour from its original destination."

"A black market."

Shylock does not confirm nor deny, but takes another sip of his drink. "I am not the businessman that Sybok is. If you are that interested in the business affairs of the colony, you should talk with him."

Kirk takes a sip of his drink. "Are you enjoying the party?"

Shylock smiles slyly. "Sybok's events are not ones to be missed. One is always guaranteed a good time here."

They watch as the dance ends and the new one begins, Sybok taking Nyota in his arms as Spock steps away.

"Sybok is a powerful man on this planet," Shylock comments.

"Yeah, I kind of gathered that," Kirk says, with just a hint of sarcasm to his voice.

"He is accustomed to claiming the object of his desires. There is very little that is forbidden to him."

Kirk wonders if he should warn Spock, what good it would do. Perhaps he should just keep this one to himself, and watch Sybok more closely when he is around Uhura.

Kirk never made a secret of his attraction towards Uhura. But he would never jeopardize his budding friendship with Spock that way. There were just certain lines a man didn't cross.

Apparently, that didn't apply to hormonal Vulcans.

* * *

Apparently displeased that Nyota did not fall into his arms at first opportunity, Sybok claps his hands and announces that food would now be served. The quintet would continue to play for the guests enjoyment.

Long, banquet-like tables are set out by servants, who are now placing mountains of food on them. There is a great assortment of meat, cheese, fruits, and breads.

Spock is not hungry, had not felt hungry in precisely two days, four hours, seventeen minutes, and thirty seconds. Still, he needed to collect samples for Dr. McCoy to examine.

Would his brother try to poison him? Would there be a compound that would show no symptoms in full-humans or Vulcans but be fatal for a hybrid of the two breeds? The probability was small, 23%, but it existed. That was all that mattered. Spock saw the way his brother looked at Nyota while they were dancing and was pleased to see how uncomfortable Nyota was. That would not stop his brother. His brother would not care the look of discomfort on Nyota's face, only that she was his, a shiny new toy that was all his.

Spock chastised himself for such idle and poetic thoughts. He is spending too much time around the Captain, he thinks. It is making himself for susceptible to such musings.

Nyota puts her hand on his arm. "Aren't you hungry?" she asks.

"My nutrients do not deplete themselves as fast as yours do," he tells her. It is not quite an answer, not quite a lie. He knows that if he tells her that he is not hungry, she will question it, she will be concerned. He does not want her to worry, does not want her to know that he is slowly going mad and losing himself and has yet to determine the cause.

"Yeah, well, I haven't eaten anything since breakfast, and I'm pretty sure you haven't eaten anything since then either, so let's get something."

She takes a little bit of everything, it seems her determining factors are if it smells good and looks good. She makes a plate for him as well, though eventually has to hand it to him, in order to fill both of their plates.

Normally, the smell of meat repulses him. It smells charred, bloody, feral even. White meat does not smell nearly as bad as red, but the smell lingers and he has never quite understood human fondness for the consumption of meat.

Tonight though, it smells intriguing. It makes his mouth water, makes him long for a taste.

He grabs the tongs before he can stop himself, grabbing a piece of meat.

Nyota stares at him.

Her stare frightens him, more importantly, his actions frighten him. Her stare questions him, demands an answer from him. Her stare wants to know what he is doing. It tells him that she knows that he hates the smell of meat, that he finds it distasteful. It questions the logic of performing such an action in direct opposition to one's beliefs. It asks him, fundamentally, if this is the man that she is in a romantic partnership with.

He wants to stop, to put it back because he wants to make her stare go away, but he cannot resist his curiosity, the baser part of him that is encouraging to taste it, suggesting to him that he just might like it.

He pops it into his mouth while Nyota looks on with horrific surprise, and a fair dose of concern on her face.

He realizes his actions before he realizes the taste on his tongue and takes a napkin from the table to remove the offending piece of meat from his mouth. What is he doing?

He is not sure. Not anymore.

Suddenly there is the sound of Sybok clapping to gain everyone's attention. They turn, they must, they have no choice in the matter. Sybok has decided to put on a performance, and the guests have become the audience.

"My friends! Now, you know that I do ever need an reason to have a soirée, but for once, my guests, I have a reason." He pauses, allowing for laughter, which his Vulcan guests are more than happy to provide.

"Families are important, if colorful and complicated. I consider this colony to be my extended family, especially after the death of my beloved mother," he puts his hand over his heart, bowing his head. "But tonight is not a night for mourning. No, my friends, tonight is a night for celebration. I always knew I had a brother. Spock, the younger brother, the half-human brother. He is the other black sheep of the family."

There is laughter again as Nyota looks nervously at Spock, who has set his plate down, placing his clenched hands behind his back, standing slightly straighter. He will _not_ let his brother effect him.

"But I never met this brother. I was curious, I wanted to meet this other part of my family. The fates smiled upon me and brought my brother to me, adding to my family. Not only have the fates given me my brother, they have also allowed me to meet Captain Kirk and Lieutenant Uhura, close friends of my brother."

Friends?! _Friends?!_ Is his brother blind, or perhaps merely idiotic? Lieutenant Uhura is not his friend. Nyota is his partner, his lover, his bond mate, above all, his. How dare he insinuate that they were merely casual acquaintances, coworkers who sometimes shared meals together, but knew very little about each other?

His brother is not fit to say Nyota's name.

"So to friends and family and may we all be fortunate to have both in our lives."

The guests raise their glasses in salutation and drank, then resuming their personal conversations.

Sybok comes over to Spock and Nyota. "I hope I didn't make you uncomfortable with my speech," he tells them.

Nyota tells him no, that it was a fine speech, and it is all the Vulcan training Spock's received to not administer a nerve pinch on Sybok.

Sybok turns to leave, but stops before walking away. "Lieutenant, I forgot to tell you how ravishing you look tonight."

"Thank you," she tells him, hoping to hurry his departure.

"Of course, I had no doubts that any dress I picked would look amazing on you, but you look like a goddess tonight, Lieutenant Uhura."

He sees red. The rage boils inside him, threatening to crush him, to destroy him. His hands shake, wishing to rip that dress off of Nyota knowing that his brother picked it out for her specifically, knowing that his brother thought about her and was seducing her, that everyone in the room knew this. He wants to make Nyota his, to make sure there is no question as to possession, he wants his brother dead for his words, his actions, his thoughts, his feelings.

He cannot breathe, the overwhelming urge to do all of these things suddenly too much. He walks away, back to his rooms. He has to meditate, immediately.

"Spock!"

He walks faster. He cannot look at her right now, not with his brother's dress on her person.

He makes it out of the ballroom and into the hallway, hoping that Nyota has not followed him.

"Damn it, Spock, talk to me!"

His hopes were futile, he thinks. He should have remembered that this was Nyota, after all.

She manages to catch up to him, matching his stride. Impressive, he observes, considering her choice in footwear.

"Is this about the dress? Look, I didn't have anything else to wear and I didn't know he had chosen it specifically for me. I didn't have a lot of time to find something to wear for this party, and it looked so nice with the earrings you got me--"

He whirls around to face her at the mention of the earrings he bought her. "It is unwise for you to speak with me right now, Nyota. Rejoin the celebration. We will speak later."

A fire blazes in her eyes. "No! I'm sick of this game, Spock, of constantly walking on eggshells around you. I'm not going to speak with you about it later, I'm tired of avoiding the subject. Talk to me, please!"

She is about to cry, he realizes. Her eyes are wider, more luminous because of tears unshed. Her lower lip is trembling, her jaw is set, and she is trying so hard to maintain a neutral expression.

He wants to make it stop, wishes that he knew how. But he does not know how, does not know how to make her understand that he needs to get away from her, right now, or there will be dire consequences. He is losing his mind to all the emotions raging inside of him and he does not know how to make it stop. He cannot be around her, should the last of his control of his break. He cannot hurt her, will not be able to live with himself if he does.

"Nyota," he says softly. "Please let me leave."

"Spock," she chokes out.

He turns to go, walking down the hallway that he knows that if he turns left, then right, will take him to his bedchamber.

* * *

She wants this dress off of her.

Intellectually, she knew the dress and shoes and everything was from Sybok. She really did have nothing to wear to that party and it looked so amazing on her and with the earrings that she couldn't resist. But the look in Sybok's eyes, that gleam that told her that she made a massive error in judgment in wearing that dress, because now he considered her all but his, that he now thought it was just a matter of time. Now Spock is mad at her and she really just wants to go back to the _Enterprise._

She isn't in a party mood anymore. She walks back to her room, taking off her shoes, her dress, then going to take advantage of the shampoo and conditioner that was sitting on the dressing table.

Her hair was not going to suffer just because Sybok was creepy.

She takes a bath, trying to get the tension out of her shoulders. She tries to just remember the good parts of the evening, dancing with Spock and feeling like things were good between them again, instead of the tension that seemed to create a wall.

She washes her hair and by the times she finishes the water is too cool to be considered comfortable to sit in. She gets out, putting on the scarlet robe. She is about ready to go to bed when she hears a loud boom outside of her window. She hurries to it, looking out, thinking that there's an attack on the colony happening when she sees it's fireworks.

Her face breaks out into a smile. She hasn't seen fireworks since Fourth of July at the Academy, when Starfleet would put on an impressive fireworks display. She didn't even think fireworks were possible on other planets, and she's delighted to discover she was mistaken.

She watches the explosions of color and light in the sky, leaning against the window frame when she hears her door open.

She goes over to it, not in the mood for company, at the same time hoping it's Spock so they can talk, so she can show him the fireworks. As she walks towards the door, she sees it is Spock, shirtless, a light sheen of sweat covering his chest, in the loose drawstring pants he wears for meditation, breathing heavily. His eyes are dark, full of desire and fire and passion. It makes her heart skip a beat and her stomach drop.

"Spoc-"

She doesn't get the chance to vocalize the _k_, because his mouth is suddenly on hers, kissing her harder than she imagined possible, his tongue demanding entry into her mouth, his hands grabbing onto her hips, crushing her to him. She gasps, letting it slide in, unprepared for the sensory overload that she's experiencing. She runs her hands down his chest, never missing an opportunity to appreciate his finely sculpted muscles. Her hands reflexively reach for the waistband of his pants when suddenly his hands move from her hips to her posterior, stroking her, kneading her through the silken fabric of her robe.

She doesn't even realize that they have moved until her back meets the wall, his leg in between hers and she realizes that she's so close, she's so unbelievably _close_ and Spock has barely even touched her. She whimpers softly, grinds against his leg, trying desperately to relieve the pressure, while he lays an assault on her neck, suckling it and biting it alternatively, muttering in husky Vulcan how he wants her, burns for her. She is essential to him, necessary to him and he must have her.

"Yes," she whispers to him in Vulcan. _Yes_.

He picks her up again, moving them to the bed. The suddenness of the action causes her to gasp, the noise distracts him from her neck and he kisses her again. He lays her down on the bed, gently, yet makes no motion to join her and for a second she wonders what is going on, what has gotten into him that he is suddenly so passionate, if this is the part where he delivers some lecture on how he could hurt her, how this is not the opportune time to make love, even though she can't think of a better time to.

She meets his gaze and she forgets about his strange behavior and the lecture she was certain she was going to get. He is just staring at her, as if she is the most beautiful woman he has ever seen and right now he is worshiping her.

At some point, her robe had become undone and she is completely open to him, no part of her body shielded from his gaze. She arches her back, just a little, closing her eyes from the heat in his.

She is his for the taking. She needs him to know this.

She feels him move onto the bed next to her, his body pressing urgently into her side. She can feel his hot breath on her neck and the sensation makes her nipples tighten, her breath come a little faster and a low keening noise escapes from the back for her throat. She doesn't open her eyes—not yet, she doesn't want to open them and realize that this is all a dream, all some fantasy her fevered mind and hormones have conspired to give her. It is real, as long as her eyes remain shut. She hears a low sound, rumbling and she swears it's laughter. Never mocking, never teasing, but rather in approval, masculine approval of the effect he has on her.

"Mine," he tells her, his voice husky and rough.

The part, however small, of her brain that is maintaining rational thought is screaming at her that this is not Spock, not the Spock she knows. There is something wrong, that he has never been like this with her, so aggressive, so open, so emotional.

The thoughts die instantly, the rational part of her brain short-circuiting when he places an open mouthed kiss where her neck meets her shoulder and slides his tongue along the line of her collarbone, then marking it with his teeth.

"t'nash-veh, ashayam," he growls in her ear, catching the lobe between his teeth.

She does not argue.

He continues southward, mapping her breasts in excruciating detail with his lips, his teeth, his tongue. She shakes, panting with need, her fingers finding the slightly thicker hair near the crown of his head and twisting into it involuntarily.

"I need you," he murmurs into her stomach.

He undoes her, the words sending white, blinding light to her eyes, the sensation almost too much and she arches against him and moans his name loudly.

He suddenly becomes very still and in an instant he is on his feet, shaking.

"Nyota--I--forgive me."

The shock of his voice, no longer rough but back to the cultured, intellectual tones of the Spock she knows, along with the loss of contact makes her eyes fly open.

"Spock, what--"

"I cannot--I am sorry--"

"Spock, wait, please--"

"Forgive me, Nyota," he tells her, as he staggers out of her room.

She scrambles out of her bed to stop him, clutching the robe around her, but he has already disappeared and there is no way she would be able to find him. Presumably, he went back into his bedchamber, but if he didn't, it would be nearly impossible to find him, not in her state.

She returns shakily to the bed to sit down. It was like he was a totally different person after she moaned his name, like he was completely unconscious of what he was doing only seconds before. It scares her, makes her wonder what is wrong with him, makes her convinced that something very serious is wrong with him.

She just has to find out what it is.


	15. Chapter 15

**Thank you to AtanaM and mhgood, for being the best betas a writer can ask for, for keeping the characters honest and the language clear and precise. Thank you to the cricket who chirps outside my window at night, keeping me up and giving me no choice but to write and or watch Heroes because there's nothing on TV at one in the morning. Thank you to everyone who took the time to read and review and favorite and alert, because while I write for my own entertainment, it's always nice to have people sit down and listen while I tell my story.**

He staggers out of her room, into the hallway, breathing heavily,erratically. Confusion and uncertainty creates a whirlwind in his mind. Down becomes up, the sea the sky.

'So,' he thinks dispassionately. 'This is what going mad feels like.'

It is the only thing he is absolutely certain of. He is going mad, and, while he is certain he is not a danger to himself, at least not yet, he is a danger to others and harming himself cannot be that far behind.

What does it matter? He hurt the one person in this universe that loved him, all of him, not just the Vulcan, not just the human. He saw the pain on her face, the shock in her voice, all because of him. He hurt her, could have even raped her or at the very least close enough to it. He had entered her room, uninvited, forced himself on her and shocked her, harmed her. It would not matter what he did to himself because of this insanity that raged through him. He already committed the worst act imaginable, because his mind is slipping from him, for reasons he still cannot fathom.

The geneticists on Vulcan foresaw no complications from creating the first Vulcan-human hybrid. The genomes were close enough in structure to ensure viability and the tests concluded no diseases nor disorders as a result of his mixed blood. Despite this reassurance, that in every way that mattered he was a man, Spock still wonders, though he would never admit it, if somehow the geneticists were wrong. If the classmates that taunted him so long ago were right: "You are neither human nor Vulcan and therefore have no place in this universe." He wonders if the geneticists had taken into consideration the possibility of mental illness, if they studied his brain as they studied his blood. Did they predict the fire that would rage through him now? Did they warn his parents? Were ethical lines crossed?

He looks in the mirror, hardly believing the reflection, yet he knows he must, logically. His hair is mussed, out of place where Nyota ran her hands through it, tugging and twisting. His eyes—his _human_ eyes—are darker than he remembers, almost black. He used to carry himself with such control, always such perfect posture and walking with what Nyota called 'feline-like grace,' but now he is hunched, clutching the post of his bed. He is looks leaner, he thinks, most likely from not eating for the past three days. It is too warm in his room, he thinks, and he goes to open a window.

The temperature hasn't changed, he notes, which means that his internal temperature has increased significantly. He paces, wondering how long, exactly, does it take to run scans of the food and drink he beamed to the _Enterprise? __He had food ordered up to his room before he meditated and he had them beamed up to the good doctor. The scans should be finished by now, the results ready to be reported._He could be dying; meanwhile the doctor is taking an illogically long time to run the scans! He contacts the _Enterprise _again and Chekov informs him the Doctor has no results to give him and that McCoy "kindly requests that you stop harassing him and let him to his damned job, Sir."

He growls in frustration, running his hands through his hair again, before patting it back flat. He has to stop this newfound bad habit of running his hands through his hair. It is unbecoming.

He browses the selection of books in the bookcase, hoping to find something that will take his mind off of his illness, at least until he hears back from the _Enterprise_. He chooses a translation into Vulcan of _A Study in Scarlet_, sprawling on the chaise lounge, opening the paper book.

He is surprised by how comfortable it is to lay on the couch. Normally, he would sit, preferring to keep his spine straight, but he finds he actually likes this position. An image comes to him, he is apologizing to Nyota, asking her to accompany him to his room, so they can talk, he invites her to sit on this couch...suddenly she is beneath him, writhing, moaning, begging him to take her.

He is more than willing to oblige.

He is horrified, tossing the book to the floor as he bolts up from the couch. He cannot think like this, cannot allow himself to come up with ways to seduce Nyota, not after the way he almost raped her.

The madness refuses to listen to him. It tantalizes him with images of her, her head thrown back in passion, baring her throat, inviting him to mark her, to make her his and his alone. He remembers, feverishly, the feel of her skin, so soft and so smooth—almost unbelievably so. It smells faintly of her shower—of flowers and soap and Nyota and it's intoxicating, breathtaking. How warm her skin was, like the warmth of the sun. It tasted slightly salty to his tongue, and he never wants to forget that taste, or the feel. He remembers the way her pulse fluttered when he kissed her throat, how her voice changed from startled surprise at his presence to something like pleasure and arousal. It whispers to him that she would like it, love it, would beg for it. It suggests to him that maybe, just maybe he was wrong, for once in his life. Maybe, just maybe he wasn't forcing himself on her, that maybe she wanted him, too. It asks him why he continues to fight, why does he choose death when he can have life?

"I will not sacrifice her," he says aloud, to no one in particular.

The wind carries the sound of laughter from the party and Spock wonders if perhaps his madness is mocking him.

* * *

Nyota knew that the world was unfair. It was unfair when she started to develop breasts and all of a sudden men seemed to forget she had eyes and a brain. It was unfair when Academy teachers would smile at her patronizingly when she disagreed with their argument, and in essence ignore her. It was unfair when Spock, in some misguided sense of logic, assigned her to the _Farrigut _instead of the _Enterprise_.

But she weathered those storms, righting the wrongs when she could and acknowledging the fact that life wasn't fair when she couldn't.

Right now, she wants to kick and scream and demand that he come back here and finish what he started.

But as much as she wants to throw a hissy fit, she is also mature enough to realize that there is something seriously, dangerously wrong with Spock. It scares her to think that Spock is sick. She has never seen him sick—never a sniffle nor a fever, and she had started to think, even though it was completely stupid to do so, that somehow he was above things like viruses and bacteria and illness.

The bookcase in her room is outfitted with fiction which normally she would appreciate, but right now she wishes to read medical journals and books and find anything that might explain Spock's behavior.

She looks to her desk, where her communicator is. She picks it up. McCoy might know something. He is, after all, Chief Medical Officer of the _Enterprise_. He'll at the very least be able to point her in the right direction.

"Uhura to _Enterprise."_

"Hello, Uhura. Vat brings this pleasant surprise?" Chekov's upbeat voice greets her.

She smiles, happy to hear a friendly voice. "Hello, Pavel. I need to talk with Dr. McCoy. Is he available?"

"My. Doktor Mkoy is wery popular today. First Komander Spock, now you. Is ewerything well with ze Komander, Uhura?"

She frowns, unaware that Spock had talked with Dr. McCoy. Which meant that he knew that he wasn't feeling well, which confirmed that something was terribly, terribly wrong.

"Everything's fine, Pavel. The Commander's being...overly cautious."

She can practically hear the wheels turning in the Russian whizkid's head, but he leaves it alone and for that she is eternally grateful. "I hope he feels better, Uhura. Please tell him ze crew sends their vell vishes."

"Thank you, Pavel."

Chekov says his goodbyes and transfers her over to McCoy.

"Good god, what now, you crazy green-blooded Vulcan? I told you I would have the results in a couple of hours!"

"McCoy?" Nyota asks, startled.

"Oh, Uhura, it's you. Sorry, I thought it was your crazy Vulcan boyfriend again. He's been harassing me all evening. Would you let him know I'm a doctor, not a miracle worker?"

Nyota smiles. "I'll get right on that, Leonard. What is Spock harassing you about?"

McCoy debates telling her for a few seconds. He does, after all, have to consider doctor-patient confidentiality, but Uhura's the closest thing the walking computer has to a significant other, and he might be able to get more information out of Uhura. A human insight that he can work with.

"He says he hasn't been eating, his temperature's up. I heard Chekov complaining to Sulu that the Commander was about to bite his head off for not running the tests quickly enough, and the way he's been hounding me, I'm willing to bet that he's irritable as well. That's just conjecture on my part, though."

"Leonard, if I tell you something, do you promise not to tell Spock or Kirk or the rest of the crew I told you this?"

"Doctor's honor, hun."

"Spock came into my room tonight, and I don't think he was in his right mind."

There's a pause on the other end of the line. "Did he hurt you, Uhura?" McCoy asks in a tone that suggests that he is looking forward to tarring and feathering Spock if Nyota answers in the positive.

"No! No, nothing like that. He was just...not himself, Leonard. It was like all of his defenses were down, all of those restrictions he puts on himself. Like the Vulcan in him was lying dormant for a little while."

"Huh. You know, Vulcan biology was never my specialty, but I remember reading something about this in one of my xenobiology textbooks at the academy. It sounds like it's hormonal, which means I can stop running those tests for every poison known in the universe."

"So you know what is wrong with Spock?"

"I never said that. Vulcan's are a secretive lot, especially when it comes to their biology. You would think they'd consider it illogical and all of that, but no. They use all of these euphemisms and crap. Why can't they just call a dog a dog? At any rate, I do remember there being a small passage on Vulcans and something about their hormones...I'll see what I can pull up here in the databases and get back to you."

"Thanks, Leonard."

"Hey, Uhura? We're going to figure out what's wrong with him, okay? No need to fret, honey."

She smiles. "I know, Leonard. You're a doctor and that's what you do."

"Damn straight, doll face. Get some sleep. I don't need you suffering from exhaustion all because of your boyfriend."

She promises him that she'll get some sleep and ends the communication.

She is too keyed up to sleep.

She tried, she really did try, but between the dopamine, the adrenaline, the nervousness, and the anxiousness, Nyota isn't sure if she'll be able to sleep for a while. Every time she closes her eyes, she imagines Spock, his mouth on her neck, her mouth, her breasts, his hands everywhere and wonders if it was just a dream, a realistic fantasy to put all previous day dreams she has ever had about him to shame. She imagines what it would be like if he hadn't bolted out of her room like he was being chased out by Klingons, she wonders if it would be a slow burning fire, lasting all night, or if it would be like the fireworks display she watched early, bursts of passion culminating in a grand finale.

She lets out a moan, her mind, and her libido, letting her wander too far. She gives up any thought of sleep, at least in the immediate future.

She might as well research.

She puts a pair of wide leg silk pants and a wrap around shirt, both sapphire blue. She'll be damned if she's going to walk around the hallways in a skimpy robe where Sybok might see her. She puts her hair in a low ponytail to get it out of the way, puts on a pair of shoes that remind her of the ballet slipper style favored on Earth and walks out.

She notices Spock's door is shut. Part of her wants to walk forward until she is standing in front of it, knock on it until he answers, demand to know what is going on with him.

'What if he doesn't know?' she thinks. He could be scared, unsure of what is going on inside of him.

And, more than likely, he is trying to meditate it away.

She smiles, sadly, and continues walking to the library.

She is surprised that she is able to find it with relative ease, but she is able, and enters the room. It is just as big as she remembers, just as gaudy. It's an extension of Sybok.

'All of these rooms are an extension of Sybok,' she thinks disgustedly. 'Gaudy and showy and more than a little bit sinister.'

But she has work to do. She scans the shelves, hoping to discern a pattern in the placement of the books. They seem to be organized by subject and she scours the shelves looking for anything remotely resembling a book on Vulcan biology.

She finds what she is looking for—a book called _Bohrau-yehat_ by Sa'al. Bohrau-yehat, she knows, translates to 'able to be cured' thus, logically, it must have something to do with diseases. Namely, Vulcan diseases.

The book is old, extremely old by the use of Traditional Vulcan. She has a little difficulty translating it, she is much better in Golic Vulcan than she is in Traditional, but she gets by, only pausing on a few words. She flips through the pages, wishing to find anything that might help her.

She is about to give up on the book when she reaches the last chapter.

_Pon Farr._

'Mating Time,' she translates. Well. That's certainly they don't teach you in 'Understanding Vulcan Culture.'

_Every seven years upon maturity...enters Pon Farr...unable to eat...emotional...final stage is Plak Tow.._

Plak Tow? She struggles to translate, her exhaustion suddenly catching up with her.

Blood Fever.

_Thoughts are consumed with mating...victims are robbed of speech...must mate with bonded other before death..._

Death? The options were mating or dying?

She lets out a low whistle, slowly closing the book, letting it all sink in. She wonders why this...affliction didn't occur to Spock. Does he know? If he does, it means he is trying to fight it, keeping it from her. It must be awkward for him. They haven't been intimate yet and she can't imagine bringing up a conversation involving a Vulcan hormonal cycle that leaves the option of mating or dying. Or, there is the possibility he has no idea what is wrong with him, which would explain why he was hounding McCoy about test results. He must be thinking his humanity eradicated the Pon Farr instinct in him.

It made sense, though. In a way, it was the only rational explanation—his jealousy, his irrational behavior. He is a walking torrent of hormones, for crying out loud. The thought amuses her and she giggles a little, realizing how exhausted she truly is.

After all, her Vulcan boyfriend is sick, and the only way for him not to die is for him to have sex.

Despite the life or death seriousness of the concept, or perhaps because the concept has such levity, is really was funny. She laughs harder.

"Something amusing, Lieutenant Uhura?"

She jumps, startled, and whirls around.

Sybok is leaning against the door, a grin on his face. He looks her over, up and down appreciatively, before his eyes settle on her face. He meant her to see that look. He didn't try to be sly in his appreciation of her, in fact, he made a display of it. As if he was telling her with that look 'I'm a man, you're a woman, I desire you, let's have sex.'

"Just-just something I remembered about the party, Sybok."

"Hmmm," he sounds as if he doesn't quite believe her. "Are you unable to sleep?"

"Yes," she answers too quickly, latching onto the excuse eagerly. "I was just really keyed up from the party and I couldn't sleep, so I decided to find some bedtime reading. I hope you don't mind."

He waves a hand. "Not at all. My home is your home, Lieutenant."

She forces herself to smile. "Thank you. I think I found something, so I'm going to head back."

She goes to leave, but he stops her, touching her arm. She gives his hand a withering stare and he drops it, but doesn't move.

"Lieutenant, I feel I must ask you something," his tone is sheepish, almost reluctant to talk to her. He looks down, looking at her through his eyelashes. It would be cute, she thinks, if it wasn't a total act.

"Yes?" she says, with just a hint of impatience to her tone.

"Is everything okay between you and my brother? I noticed some...discord when you left the party. I hope my buying you the dress had nothing to do with it."

"Everything is fine, Sybok," she tells him firmly. "I should really be getting to bed, now. It's been a long day." And with that she starts moving to leave.

He's too fast for her. He sidesteps her, blocking the door and she bumps into him. He steadies her, both hands on her arms. She can feel the desire through his touch and she fights it, flooding her mind with images of Spock. She refuses to feel Sybok, to feel the desire he feels for her. It's disgusting, revolting, and she refuses to let it permeate her mind.

It still makes her toes curl...her breathing become faster and she hates herself a little for it, even though she knows she can't stop the physical effects.

"Lieutenant...please, don't put such images in my head."

"W-what? Excuse me?"

"I-I have started to develop feelings for you. Please, understand, I have tried to stop them. You are my brother's and I refuse to come between the two of you. But I can't help myself, I see you, feel the love that you have for my brother and I can't help but dream, hope that it was mine.

"I have tried to erase you from my memory, to not picture you, but I find I cannot. You haunt me, Lieutenant, night and day and I cannot stop it anymore. I-I _refuse_ to stop it anymore. This feels too fated, Lieutenant. I cannot stop my desire for you any more than I can stop the sun from rising."

She stares at him. His words sound so sincere, so honest and true, but also knows that they are not true, they are smoke and mirrors, words to make her forget herself. They are duplicitous, a sinister farce of genuineness It is just another move, another strategy to get what he wants.

She wants to slap him, wants him to take them back, to make him erase the memory she now has of him delivering this little speech of his.

"Sybok, you know I am involved with your brother. I love him, deeply. I don't return your affections. Please don't bring this up again."

He stares at her. So long she wonders if he even heard her, and she's to tell him again, with far less polite words, when he speaks.

"Uhura...my brother cannot make you happy, you must know this by now. He'll try, but in the end he is too steeped in Vulcan restrictions to truly love you, as you deserve to be loved."

She laughs, not believing she's hearing this crap come out of his mouth. "And you can?"

His face hardens. "Yes, Uhura, I can." His tone is dangerous, almost a growl.

He leans into her, about to kiss her mouth and she turns her head at the last second, so his lips meet her cheek. The bile rises in her throat, but it was the safest move. She is well trained in self-defense, but Sybok is at least three times stronger than her. She would be foolish to try to fight him.

He's angry. She can feel the anger through his touch, can see it in his face as he frowns and his eyes darken.

He pushes it no further, however, and instead lets her go. He walks away from the door and instead to the bookshelves, his back toward her.

"I would rather not force you, Uhura. I have genuine feelings for you, whether you believe me or not. You will come to love me, too, in time. I would rather that develop naturally than...He trails off, looking back at her and smiling. "I would hate to damage that beautiful, incredible mind you possess. But," he sighs. "I will do what I must." He pauses for a moment. "I need to remember," he says to both himself and her, "you are young. Spock is your first lover, is he not? Or he's among the few. Ah, I see," he says to her shocked face. "Not your first. But he is your first _serious_ lover, isn't he, Uhura? Oh, to be young and in love again!" he exclaims wistfully, sinisterly. "But," he continues "the young never know what they truly want. Sometimes they need to be...guided. I am willing to do that, Uhura. I am willing to guide you. If needed be, break you, like one breaks a stubborn horse. We'll just need to both practice a little patience. There would be so much ecstasy in the reward."

He turns to her again. "I do _try_ _not_ to be a monster, Nyota," he says quietly.

She doesn't say a word to him, not a reprimand for saying her first name without her permission, not a word on his threat to mind rape her into loving him. She walks, very fast, out of the room, still clutching the book, feeling like she just escaped the serial killer in a horror movie.

She walks back to the hallway of their bedchambers and stops in front of Kirk's door, banging--not knocking--on it.

"Okay! Okay, jeez, hold on."

Kirk is shirtless, obviously in the middle of getting out of his party clothes. "Uhura! What's up? Everything okay with Spock?"

She waves her hand. She'll tell him about that later. "Kirk, there's something seriously weird about Sybok, about this whole damn planet."

He looks like she just told him that the sky on Earth was blue. "Yeah, I know. I think there's a black market and that's how Sybok's risen to power."

Uhura raises her eyebrow. "Captain, I think we have a lot to talk about."

"Jim?" The 'J' is pronounced more like in the French tradition, rather than hardened 'J' Uhura's used to.

"Jim, are you coming back to bed?" the voice says again.

Uhura stares at Kirk incredulously. "You've got to be kidding me."

"What? Just because you're clearly not getting laid doesn't mean I can't. Just gimme one sec, would you? I'll tell her I'll be right back, and we can go talk about Sybok and the black market and all of that."

She waves her hand, allowing him to proceed.

"Hey, baby? I've got some official Starfleet business to take care of—make yourself comfortable and I'll be right back."

"Do you promise?" Uhura wants to vomit from the petulance she hears in the bimbo's voice.

Kirk grins at the woman in his bed disarmingly. "Of course. And a Kirk never reneges on a promise. Don't have too much fun without me," he winks.

"Let's go, _Captain_," Uhura hisses.

"Alright! Alright! Mind if we use your room? Mine's a little bit occupied. Unless, you know, you're into that sort of the thing."

Kirk is very glad there aren't any sharp objects or vases in the hallway.


	16. Chapter 16

**Many, many thanks to mhgood for fixing tenses and other things, because for some reason the present tense was being difficult. Equal amount of thanks to AtanaM, who added so much necessary wording and fixed a lot of the dialogue for clarity that I really don't know what I would do without her. Thank you Kryalla Orchid for the inspiration for the balcony and for pointing out the typo. Thank you to College, for making me appreciate writing Nar that much more, and for the twenty minute commute to classes, giving me time to think about plot. Thank you, the sole person who took the time to read the A/N, for reading the note and for reading Nar and hopefully reviewing. **

Kirk strolls causally into Uhura's bedroom, as if it were everyday that he was in bed with one woman and interrupted by another. He notices that she looks tense, almost to the point of uneasiness. She paces around the room, putting her hair up into a ponytail, only to pull it out again.

Her room seems warm to him, stuffy almost. There's a claustrophobic quality to it, maybe because she's pacing, obviously upset by something, maybe because a part of him thinks this is really about Spock, who in his current mood would rip him a new one, or several, for being alone with Nyota in her room, or maybe it really is the heat, either way, but it's making him damn uncomfortable.

Really, why is it so hot in here?

He shifts uncomfortably. "Your room has a balcony, right?" he says.

She stops pacing at the sound of his voice long enough to look at him, her arms wrapped around herself. She looks distracted and distant, Kirk thinks, though he isn't sure why. He hopes she doesn't misinterpret what he said. He was just being his usual self earlier, and asking if she had a balcony was a perfectly innocent question. And if anyone can make an innuendo out of a question, it's James T. Kirk. Normally she would be looking at him with that exasperated but oddly affectionate frown and a retort already formed on her lips. However, she isn't. She is a million miles away and he isn't sure if she heard him at all.

So why is she pacing and hugging herself, as if she were trying to expel a particularly troubling thought? She's afraid, he realizes and worry coils itself in the pit of his stomach. The Uhura he knows isn't afraid, of anything, yet he has the distinct impression that she is afraid right now, and very much so.

"What did you ask?"

"I asked you if your room had a balcony," he repeats. "It's kind of stuffy in here."

She looks around it as if just noticing it for the first time. "Yeah, it is."

"Come on, Uhura. Let's go outside. You look like you could use some air."

She nods and follows him, and he finds he doesn't like silently obedient Uhura as much as he likes the respectfully willful Uhura, and concern and panic fills him.

They step out onto the balcony, which is just big enough to seat two chairs. She takes one while he takes the other, facing her.

"How's Spock?" he asks her, with a flippancy he doesn't feel.

"Fine," she says. She's lying to him. He's known her long enough to tell that her answer came too quickly, to see her as she looked down before she answered, biting her lip as she did so. Did this have something to do with Spock? He didn't hear the conversation between Spock, Sybok, and Uhura, but whatever it was made Spock furious enough to leave the party, Uhura following him and neither returning. Sybok had a sickening smile for a second and made a show out of being even more boisterous and exuberant for the remainder of the party.

Maybe Uhura and Spock had a falling out. And somehow this had to do with Sybok, or at the very least he was involved.

It is obvious that Uhura isn't going to relay to him any information unless absolutely necessary. It was like dealing with her pointy-earned bastard of a boyfriend, sometimes, he thought exasperatedly.

"Really?" he prompts. "He sure didn't seem fine when he left the party."

A nervous, slightly hysterical giggle escapes her before she snaps her mouth shut.

Kirk stares at her for a moment before reaching over and taking her hands in his. "Uhura," he says quietly, gently, "what's going on?"

She stares at their hands but makes move to retrieve hers. She takes a deep breath, closing her eyes. "Kirk, listen, I can't really talk about it, okay? It's...personal."

He gives her his best playboy grin, squeezing her hands. "So why did you come to my room and interrupt what promised to be a very fun time?"

She gives him a small tilt of her lips in recognition of his humor, pulling her hands from his and knotting them in her lap. "It's Sybok. I was in the library and he came in and confessed that he was...attracted to me and he said-well, he didn't actually say the words but he...insinuated that if I didn't magically decide to leave Spock to be with him, he'd force me to..."

"Whoa," Kirk holds up a hand, half-way out of his chair before he realizes it, his worry quickly turning into anger. "Stop right there. Did he touch you, Nyota? Did he hurt you in any way?"

Uhura lets out a sigh, gesturing for him to sit back down. "No, nothing like that. Vulcans are touch-telepaths, Captain. With that gift comes the possibility of what is called a mind rape, being able to see inside someone's mind without their expressed consent. Gifted Vulcans have the ability to suggest and implant ideas into other's minds,forcing them to do things they wouldn't normally do. It's called _kae'at k'lasa."_

"_Shit."_

Uhura gives a weak smile. "Yeah."

Kirk leans back in his chair, letting it all sink in.. He knew about that touch-telepathy thing Vulcans had, but he didn't realize the full scope and breadth of their powers.

"Look, Kirk, I don't spook easily, but I think he's serious about it—for whatever twisted reason he...wants me, and I'm not sure how long Spock can watch his brother put the moves on me before things get ugly. We need to finish whatever business there is to finish here and leave. Tomorrow, if possible."

Kirk considers it. "You're right. I'll see what I can do about getting you and Spock beamed back onto the _Enterprise_ tomorrow but I need to stay here longer than just a day. There have been some interesting developments that deserve investigation."

She nods. "You said something about a black market?"

"Yeah. I think that's how Sybok holds so much influence. I mean, lavish parties are great and everything, but they're not going to make you unofficial leader of a colony."

"So you think that he's literally the one with all the money and the power."

Kirk nods. "You got it."

"What makes you think this?"

"I had a conversation with Shylock while you and Spock were off dancing. I asked him why the Federation knew nothing about this planet, that Sybok preferred it that way, and he implied that there was more that the Federation didn't know about and he specifically mentioned trade. When I asked him more about it, he shrugged, said he wasn't the business man that Sybok was and maybe I should ask him. I thought more about it later, the logistics of the economy of this planet and I realized that we haven't heard of a single instance of a Federation planet trading with A-75 or anyone affiliated with the planet, even in things like food or metals. So whatever it is that they're trading for must be off the grid."

"Off the grid as in illegal trading?" Uhura asks.

Kirk nods. "It's...original, I have to give him credit for that. After all, usually there is some kind of legitimate market to cover up the black market. But it looks like their entire economy is illegal. Highly lucrative as well, if it's supporting Sybok's life-style." He waves a hand, including the lavash palace and all of its furnishings.

Kirk pauses for a second, wondering if he should tell Uhura the rest of the conversation. He takes a deep breath. "Look, Uhura, Shylock said something about how Sybok's a powerful man, and that he always gets what he desires. Given what you just told me, I think there's a grain of truth to it. Just...watch your back, okay?"

Uhura nods. "I will."

She takes a deep breath. She seems to Kirk a lot more resolute than she was a few moments ago, as if she has made a decision.

"Thank you, Captain, for trusting me to watch my own back. There are not many Federation captains who would think so highly of their female officers."

Kirk smiles. Her tone is so Spock-like, so stiff, but her words are so sincere. He wonders if those two realize how perfect they are for each other, how much they have picked up each other's patterns. "There aren't many female officers who can kick their captain's ass, Lieutenant."

She laughs, a full-bodied laugh and he's grateful to hear it.

"So what do we do now?"

"I want concrete evidence that he is indeed running a black market and what he's dealing in. Shylock implied that this is effecting inter-space trade, and I want to make damn sure that when I go to the Federation about this, I have the evidence to back it up and not just a bunch of tales about creepy, over-emotional Vulcans. After that, we beam off this planet and call it a mission. And after that, I think it's high time we get some shore leave."

Uhura nods. "Okay. Just, try to make it quick, Captain. I don't want you to be on this planet any longer than necessary, either." She smiles, sighing. "There would be so much paperwork to fill out if you died here."

Kirk laughs, confident that the Uhura he knows is back. "I'll keep that in mind, Lieutenant. Listen, we'll talk more in the morning about this, with Spock."

Uhura looks hesitant for a moment, before nodding. "Yeah, we'll talk in the morning."

He can't let go of the fact that for a second she was hesitant. "Uhura? Is there something I need to know about Spock?"

She debates her answer. "Spock's not feeling...himself, Captain."

"Would you be feeling like yourself if you just found out you had a half brother and that half brother was a lunatic?"

Uhura stares at him for a while. "No, no I guess not, Captain. Forget I said anything."

Kirk waves his hand. "It's okay. I appreciate the reminder. Sometimes it's easy to forget how much he's going through, you know? He acts so normal...for him."

"Yeah...normal."

"Anyway, I'm going to get back to bed, T'ranah's not going to wait forever and I don't want her to lose the mood, or worst yet, fall asleep waiting for me. I'll see you in the morning, Uhura."

She nods. "Do try to get some sleep tonight, Captain."

He stands up and winks at her. "Wouldn't sleep be defeating the purpose, Lieutenant?"

She smiles back at him. "Good night, Kirk."

"'Night, Uhura."

* * *

That _bitch_.

He paces around the room, seeking to get rid of some of his agitation.

Did she not understand how much fire and passion he could bring her? He is a man of wealth, status, position on this planet. A man of fine tastes in everything that matters—food, drink, music, clothing, art, and, mostly importantly, women. He knows the sexual techniques of every humanoid species in the universe. There are women who call him a _deity_ in bed. And this woman has the audacity to laugh at him, to look at him as if he is the most revolting thing she has ever seen in her life? How dare she think of his brother as he holds her in his arms?

Spock was always the favored of Sarek's sons. He was the son Sarek wanted, despite the fact that Spock was a hideous half-breed, genetically engineered. He was the son Sarek chose to raise, the son that Sarek would have done anything and everything to protect, instead of letting him be cast off of Vulcan, like a distasteful piece of dust being swept under the rug.

Sybok stops his pacing and glares, desiring to destroy something, anything. It is his normal reaction, the reaction he feels whenever his father's name enters his mind. He has not seen his father since entering adulthood, and has only met his father twice. The first time was as a young child, a toddler; the second as a teenager, albeit a young one. The final time he met his father was when he and his mother were cast out of Vulcan for being V'osh Ka'tur. His mother had pleaded with Sarek to intervene, to speak on her behalf to the High Council. He refused, telling her that it was illogical for her to assume that his interference would change the outcome of the Council's decision. In essence, he had told her that she had made her bed and now she had to lie in it.

Sybok clenches his fist, hating his father for his deliberate nonaction. Had Sarek done something, anything, then his mother would still be alive today, alive to see her son achieve all that she wanted him to achieve.

He notices there is a book missing from his bookcase. Normally he doesn't care about his books. They are only books after all, of little consequence to him. They are merely impress the people he brings to this room. They serve a purpose. However, Nyota was in this room, looking through his books, caressing the volumes in order to find one for some bed time reading. Personally, he prefers more active ways in which to achieve slumber, but to each her own.

All of his books are organized by subject, and the book she has chosen is on Vulcan biology.

How fascinating.

He thinks back on how agitated his brother was, how...emotional. And if memory served, he saw his brother eating meat at the party earlier.

Nyota smelled distinctly of something when he surprised her in the library. There was the smell of human female pheromones, he was well acquainted with those, but there had been something else as well, something he couldn't quite define. Now, he was able to place it. Vulcan male pheromones, very strong, very distinct Vulcan male pheromones. They weren't the normal sort either, an especially distinct kind only exuded when--

He smiles at the gap between two books, formulating a plan.

"Looks like my brother is all grown up."

* * *

When he sleeps, he dreams.

He always found the human preoccupation for dreaming strange. 'Such shaping fantasies that apprehend more than true reason ever comprehends,' he believes is the line from Shakespeare. Humans seemed to place so much importance on their dreams, as if the average eight hours in which they spend resting will divine onto them more than waking hours ever could. Dreams, they think, mean something, something more than the collage of images their conscious maintains. Dreams, he knows scientifically and logically, are nothing more than the brain's attempt to make sense of things, to put into order the chaos so that logic and reason can prevail.

He has never dreamed. There was nothing to dream about, he supposes. There was the possibility that he never remembered his dreams when he awoke, but it was not a conclusion he readily embraced. He did not dream, as Vulcans do not dream, and accepted this fact as he accepted all facts, contributing it to his unique genetic heritage.

Tonight, he dreams, for the first time in his life.

He dreams of killing Sybok, for making such dishonorable advances on Nyota. In his dream it's merciless, cruel, incredibly satisfying. He chokes his brother, watching the light slowly fade from Sybok's eyes, his systems slowly shutting down, one by one, until he takes his last breath, his heart beats for the last time. And just to make sure that Sybok is dead, he takes a knife, slicing his throat, watching the emerald blood trail down his lifeless skin.

He kills Kirk, for beaming them down onto this planet, this planet that has caused him so much pain and strife and misery. He kills Kirk for being fundamentally what he cannot, a passionate man more suited for Nyota. He kills Kirk for knowing this, for knowing that he is better suited for Nyota and biding his time, laughing at him and his clumsy attempts at pleasing Nyota, all the while plotting to take what is rightfully Spock's.

So he kills Kirk, the same way he kills Sybok.

His dreamscape is desert-like. It reminds him of home, of Vulcan, except it is cold, miserably so. It would be cold even to humans and he doesn't know why it is so cold, why the sun is so blaring and the desert so desolate when the emptiness and starkness used to bring him comfort.

Then Nyota comes, bringing the warmth with her. She smiles at him, opening her hands in welcome, speaking to him, but he can't hear her nor can he make out the words her pretty lips are forming. Then she looks down at the bodies of Sybok and Kirk and the smile disappears, with it the warmth. She looks at him with such betrayal, such sadness that he wants to do anything in his power to make it go away, but he does not know how, does not know the words to make it go away and she will not tell him how. He is angry with her, demands to know why she insists on being an enigma to him, why he constantly has to translate her. He has never felt so much anger, so much frustration in his life, and if he were in his right mind, which he knows he is not, he would be frightened. But, as he is insane, for whatever reason, he continues to yell at her, until she disappears, leaving him alone. Utterly, unbearably, and completely alone. It leaves a black hole in him, threatening to consume him if he is not careful, and he starts to howl, because it is the only thing to combat the emptiness that is rapidly swallowing him whole.

He wakes, covered in a sweat, breathing heavily. He hates the rush of adrenaline in his system, the panic and fear he feels at being unable to process his emotions, take them apart and deconstruct them, leaving nothing but the logic behind them. There is nothing else, cannot be anything else and he must make it so. He keep the madness threatening to overtake him at bay. He does not understand, for the very first time in his life. He has never felt this out of control, even when he was a child. A few days ago he was completely in control, was living in complete capacity of his facilities.

He clutches the sheets as the fire taunts him, suggests to him that it would be so much fun to have Nyota in his bed right now. He would prove to her that he was better than Sybok, better than Kirk. He is the better man, the better mate, and he would prove that to her. As many times as needed. He moans, his back arching as the fire burns brighter, hotter, demanding release.

He hopes death is merciful.

* * *

Nyota hails the _Enterprise _before going to bed.

"Good ewening, Nyota. Did you vish to speak with Doktor Mkoy?"

God, did she ever. She feels a migraine coming on and she rubs her temples. "Yeah, thanks Pavel."

She hears some grumbling, followed by McCoy's gruff tone. "McCoy."

"McCoy, it's Nyota."

"Hun, I'm glad you seem to think I'm superman, but do you realize what time it is? The Vulcans might not need sleep, but the rest of us sure as hell do."

"I'm sorry,Leonard, you know I wouldn't have called unless it was important. Have you ever heard of Pon Farr?"

"Pon What?"

"Pon Farr. It's a Vulcan...affliction. It happens to them every seven years."

"What are the symptoms?" McCoy's professional curiosity wakes him up a little, enough to keep Nyota talking.

For some reason she feels uncomfortable telling McCoy, as if she's divulging some secret she's been sworn to keep till death.

"What? Is it some strange hobgoblin secret?" McCoy asks in response to her silence.

She takes a deep breath. She has to get Spock better. She has to.

"He has to mate or die, Leonard. At least, that's what he has to do if I'm reading this correctly," she says quietly.

There's a long pause. "I'm sorry, I don't think I heard you. I swear I heard you just say that Spock has to mate or die."

"Yes. Evidently it happens every seven years upon physical maturity. I haven't been able to find much about the subject, but it starts out with increased aggression, both mental and physical and an increase in libido and internal temperature. The last stage is plak tow, it means blood fever, which robs the victim of speech, leading to total physical and mental breakdown, followed by death unless..."

"Yeah, I get it. Literally, mate or die. Well, isn't that just Mother Nature's trick. It's hormonal then. Probably has something to do with suppressing all that emotion, though it sounds medically more akin to being in heat. Look, if you can get him back on the _Enterprise_, I might be able to level out his hormone levels, bring him back to normal. But you would have to get him here _now_. The longer we wait, the more his hormone levels unbalance themselves and lead to a potentially toxic situation," he coughs, obviously uncomfortable with the thought of Spock and sex.

"Okay, Leonard, thanks."

"Any particular reason why the Commander, who, I might add, is a damn science officer, come up with this brilliant conclusion himself, if this is as common as a cat in heat?"

She sighs. "That, Leonard, is the million dollar question. Maybe he's ashamed about it and he's trying to hide it, but the more I think about it, the more I think that maybe he truly doesn't know. He's a hybrid, as you're aware. His birth was the work of geneticists. It's possible he was told he was too human to experience Pon Farr. Full Vulcans go through their first Pon Farr in their early teens and Spock's 28. If he's never gone through Pon Farr before, what would make him think it's Pon Farr now?"

She pinches the bridge of her nose, tired of all of these questions and only a possible question. "My information is limited here...I don't know if there are any other Vulcan diseases that mimic Pon Farr."

"Hmmm," McCoy ponders and Nyota knows she's spiked his curiosity. "Well, now's a good of a time as any to begin research on Vulcan physiology. I'll explore the hormonal avenue, see what I can find on this Pon Farr, you do your best to get him here before we have a raving lunatic on our hands. I doubt I'll be able to find anything more than what you've told me, but hey, it's worth a shot."

She wants to tell him that it's pretty damn simple—either Spock has sex for days on end, or he dies. Instead, she thanks him, ending the communication. She's tired, has a migraine and a long day ahead of her.

Tomorrow she would have the task of telling Spock that she knew what was going on with him, that she wanted to help and that she told McCoy what was going on and they needed to beam up to the _Enterprise _so he could regulate his hormone levels.

She has absolutely no idea where to begin.


	17. Chapter 17

**I'm back! I'm so sorry this took so long--but you are getting two chapters, so please don't be too mad at me. Many thanks to my wonderful betas for doing such an amazing job, for sticking with my and for loving Nar as much as I do.  
And thank you, to everyone who has PM'd me to tell me that my story is amazing, and to everyone who has reviewed, because you guys make me smile.**

He wakes.

The madness is still there, still taunting him, unrelenting in its assault from last night. The fire burns, desperately, madly, and he wonders why this is happening, why the madness has claimed him.

He is conscious of the fact that he is going insane, has always, on some level, been conscious of this fact. Yet waking from these dreams, journeying from his dreamscape to consciousness, the simple idea of being aware of the desires within him and the lack of control he has over them, makes his insanity that much more real, that much more frightening.

It is familiar to him now, separate but not apart, a voice but not his voice. What he worries about is the possibility of the two voices merging, becoming one and he won't be sure where he ends and the madness begins.

How will he explain this to Nyota? If he knows her, and he would like to think that he does after months of such emotional intimacy as they share, she will demand an explanation for his attempted rape of her the previous night. He cannot condemn, he expects it of her but still he hopes that she will leave him be, let him figure out this behavior, modify it, then come to her on his own volition, presenting a logical explanation concerning his lunacy.

He smirks—actually smirks. The logic of his madness. How…poetic.

He takes a deep, shuddering breath. He is in control, for now, though he is uncertain how long he will be. He gets up, checking his communicator for any messages from the _Enterprise_ and finding none. He frowns, wondering what is taking the doctor so long.

Unless there is nothing. But nothing can come of nothing. Though if he is going insane, then his body is in perfect order. It is his mind that is in chaos. Would the doctor not tell him that? No. He would tell the Captain. The first officer is going insane. Get rid of him. Look—the mad knight is gone, the king may take the queen.

Take Nyota.

He growls, his body tightening in rage. There has been no word, no answer, from the _Enterprise._ The doctor has betrayed him. The captain. His supposed friend. They are conspiring to take her away from him. Because he is Vulcan? Could they not stand the thought of a beautiful human woman being with an alien? Or did they hate him because he was neither fully human nor Vulcan, but a mix of the two? Neither fully human nor Vulcan and therefore has no place in the universe? It's something that would have stuck with Spock despite himself and his tortured psyche would have brought that snide voice back in his head. Just a thought. Is that it? The underlying cause? Kirk is attracted to Nyota. Fact. That is the primary cause of his betrayal, something Spock can understand. Nyota is a beautiful, intelligent woman, and Kirk would be foolish to not desire her. But there is something more to it? Something he doesn't see—an element of hate?

He strides to the door. He must find Nyota, must establish her as his mate before Kirk claims her as his own.

The door is locked. He struggles to open it, bangs on it, yells to be heard through it, to no avail.

He has been locked into his room.

He's made a fatal error, somewhere in this chess game and now Kirk is free to take his queen.

T'ranah and Kirk wake shortly before sunrise. She was fun—he is rather surprised.

"Thanks for being my first, babe," he tells her, kissing her before she leaves.

She giggles and he appreciates the view of her beautiful body stretching beneath the sheets as she smiles up at him. "You are too talented to be a virgin, Jim."

"Well, yeah," he concedes the obvious. "But you're my first Vulcan."

"A Vulcan virgin." The thought sends her into gales of giggles.

He grins at her. "Yup, a Vulcan virgin. Listen, T'ranah, it's getting to be light out and I'd hate for you to get in trouble." A girl this beautiful has to have someone waiting for her, has always had someone waiting for her-a father, a friend, a boyfriend, a lover, a husband.

And he wants a head start on investigating the city. But he's not a cad--he truly would hate to see anything happen to T'ranah.

She waves her hand, snuggling more closely to him. "Oh, Sybok won't miss me, Jim, and it's not like the servants haven't seen me sneaking out of various bedrooms before," she laughs.

"Wait..." he bolts up, his head hitting the head rest, trying to comprehend. "What?!"

"Oohh," T'ranah blushes a faint green. "Oh, Jim, I thought you knew. I'm one of Sybok's..." she trails off delicately, letting him put the final piece of the puzzle together.

He stares at her, her mussed, but elegantly coiffed hair, the beautiful dress lying crumpled on the floor, her manicured nails, and if last night's dinner conversation was any indication, a decent education. He frowns, she doesn't fit the part. She's too nice, too smart, too classy.

"Holy _hell_," he breathes. "T'ranah, how did you get to be one of Sybok's...concubines?"

She twitches one perfect shoulder dismissively. "He desired me. He pursued me, told me that he had many girls, but that none of them were like me," she sighs ruefully. "I believed him. A part of me still believes him, Jim. He's very charming, you know. There aren't many who understand him, who get what he's been through."

"Yeah, I get it—he's misunderstood," he snaps, before sighing. She looks taken aback at his response, and starts to sit up, the natural pout of her lips much more pronounced. He didn't mean to snap at her, he is just surprised by her...occupation.

"So...how did you meet?" he asks, hoping to make amends for snapping at her. He reaches over, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. He gives her his best repentant look, letting her know he was just jealous for a small instant.

She smiles back tremulously, buying his look. She's mollified for the moment and lays back down, caressing his chest. "My father is in trading. He in business with Shylock and they had a business meeting here one day. I always wanted to see the palace, so my father asked if he could bring me along. Sybok agreed, and I met him after the conclusion of the business meeting," she smiles a little bit at the memory. "I believe you Terrans say the rest is history?"

"Something like that," he tells her absently.

She props her head up on one arm, looking up at him. "I didn't mean to lie to you, Jim. I truly didn't. It just never came up. And don't worry—Sybok and I haven't been...intimate in a long time. He's been too busy on his current project to pay any of us much attention. Besides, I think your female friend—the Lieutenant Uhura—has caught Sybok's fancy."

Kirk snorts. "So I hear. What's this project of Sybok's, T'ranah?"

She shakes her head. "I don't know. Shylock came for his weekly meeting with Sybok, but one time he brought with him Romulans."

"Romulans?"

She nods eagerly. "They escaped from a Klingon prison planet. Their ship was captured many years ago. and they just managed to escape, with Shylock's help. They said if he would get them off the planet, they'd give him some kind of weapon or something."

Oh, god. Would his trouble with Romulans never end? "What kind of weapon?"

She pouts. "Why do you care, Jim? You will leave me in a few days. Perhaps we should be doing something more...fun?"

He smiles. You catch more flies with honey... "Of course, baby. You're right—that conversation was getting boring anyway," he kisses her, rolling her underneath him.

A while later, T'ranah pressed against his side, tracing Vulcan symbols on his chest as he runs his fingers through her hair.

"You said something about a weapon earlier?" he asks in a deceptively absent voice.

She continues dancing her fingers across his chest. "Sybok is ambitious. The Romulans promised him a weapon that would make the Federation quake, making him more powerful than all the gods in the universe. He believes them, and is making it so."

"And Shylock is helping him with this."

She nods. "Shylock's head of the project and my father is assisting him, though Sybok's been spending more and more in time in the lab lately."

"Where's this lab? In the castle?"

"No, it's in the city. I've never seen it."

He nods his head absently. She's given him a lot to think about. "We should probably get going. Breakfast is soon."

She sighs with just a little bit more drama than is strictly necessary. "You're right, of course."

He gives her his signature grin. "Parting is such sweet sorrow, sweetheart."

She smiles. "Will I see you again, Jim?"

He kisses her again. "Yeah, I'll see you around, babe."

She giggles as she rolls out of bed and shimmies into the dress she wore last night. "See you around, Captain Jim Kirk."

He watches her butt fondly as she sash shays her way out of his room and he goes to put on a shirt. His mind is heavy from all of the things he's learned, and his encounter with T'ranah is a little bit too close to how he used Gaila to beat the Kobiashi Maru. In a sense he used both girls to get information he wanted, seducing them in return. Sure, he showed them a good time, but he still felt guilty about Gaila. She deserved better than an emailed 'sorry.' He should have had the chance to apologize in person.

He hopes that, in the end of this, that T'ranah will still have a life, she'll still be able to stop making excuses for the stupid men in her life. He hopes that she'll be happy and healthy and _live_.

More than what Gaila got.

And now there were these fucking Romulans, still a thorn in his side.

Nero is dead, Kirk knows this to be certain. According to Spock Prime, the _Narada _had been badly damaged after the _Kelvin_ rammed into it and Klingon's had captured the _Narada_ and sentenced the entire crew to a prison planet. The story went they'd be stuck there for years before they escaped, miraculously. Which means that the Romulans T'ranah spoke of had probably served with Nero and some of his crew had chosen the thief over the madman and made their escape with Shylock instead of staying with their captain.

_Fuck_.

He began to pace. He had to get more information. He wished his first officer was acting like himself, he could use the sense of logic right now.

He had to come up with a plan. Okay. He would go to the city, find this lab, figure out what the hell they were doing. He would get evidence, beam his ass back onto the _Enterprise_ and get the hell out of here.

He took a deep breath. Right now,he needed to have breakfast with Sybok. He couldn't let Sybok know that he was up to something, the results would be cataclysmic.

He walks to the dining room to find Sybok reclining on a chaise lounge, reading a book. The remnants of his breakfast are sitting on a plate next to him--eggs, toast, and sausage, it looks like. He's reading a book—it's entirely in Vulcan and Kirk's Vulcan is rusty at best. So much for being the treasurer of the xenolinguistics club at the Academy...

Sybok places it down, smiling at Kirk's arrival. "Ah, Jim. You've come to join me. I trust your activities last night weren't too incapacitating?" he chuckles.

He feels like punching the bastard, he really does. Right across the jaw. He wants to wipe that smirk off his face for his comments to Uhura. How dare he? And how can he sit here and read a book like nothing happened?

The silence is just a little bit too long and Sybok looks at him questioningly. Kirk chuckles, hoping his laugh is convincing. "You know, we have a saying on Earth—live hard and play harder."

Sybok lets out a full bodied laugh. "And they say humans are too simple to be amusing! Your race is a truly delightful species, Jim."

"Thanks," Jim replies sardonically.

Sybok waves a hand and a servant appears with a plate of food for Kirk. "Sit, eat. You must be starving."

Kirk nods. "So what are you reading?"

"Oh," Sybok replies flippantly. "Just a book on Vulcan. However, it is impolite to read when one has guests. Did you enjoy the party last night?"

"I did," Kirk mumbles, his mouth full of food. "It was fun."

Sybok looks affronted. "_Fun?_ Only that? It wasn't exciting? Exhilarating? Did you not find passion and desire and ecstasy at my party?"

Kirk swallows carefully before replying with what he hopes is a neutral answer. "Do people usually?"

Sybok sighs. "Humans. You are amusing, but you don't feel. Not like Vulcans can. I can't imagine what it is like, skimming the surface of an emotion, never completely feeling. Never completely feeling love, or passion, or desire. You aren't consumed by it, you merely think you are. They are fleeting, your emotions. Just a will 'o' wisp in the wind."

"A lot of people on my planet would disagree—it's the common assumption that Vulcans are the ones who don't feel."

"You're wrong," he says sharply, bitingly. He's scowling and Kirk is worried for a second that he's hit a nerve, but Sybok's face clears just as quickly. "Vulcans do feel, Jim. Even my...reserved brother. He feels, he may not allow you to see it, but he feels. Just as passionately as I. He craves and desires and wants, just like I. He forgets, thinks that he is better than I, because he has his emotions under control," he says 'control' as if it's a terrible word, full of perverse implications. "But he's wrong. In truth, we are the same."

Kirk wonders where this came from, where this is going. Sybok's eyes get a far away look and they lapse into silence.

Kirk starts up the conversation again. "So I was thinking last night, how do the economics work on this planet?"

"Like any other planet," Sybok lies smoothly. "We import and export various goods. It is a free market, as we're outside the Federation. There is no middleman in-between the business man and the consumer."

"So what you do you trade in?"

"Oh, various things. Food, different items, like precious stones, metals. Nothing special. Why do you ask, Jim?" He tilts his head and for a second Jim thinks he's talking to Spock.

"No reason. I was just curious," Jim shrugs nonchalantly.

Sybok looks at him for a moment, as if trying to decide if Kirk is indeed telling the truth. "I hope I have answered all of your questions. You are free to speak with any of my business associates, should you wish to learn more."

Oh, he plans to. Kirk nods. "Yeah, thanks, if I happen to run into them I will. We're a research crew, after all. We want to know how things work."

Sybok stares at him pointedly for longer than truly necessary and Kirk starts to wonder if it is just him or does Sybok seem tense?

"Do you have any plans for today?" Sybok finally asks.

"Not really," Jim lies. "I think I'm going to recuperate from last night."

Sybok lets out a chuckle. "A wise plan. If you will excuse me, I have...unavoidable plans for the day. I will see you at dinner, Jim."

"Yeah, see you around."

The captain was turning into a tiring little toy.

Sybok sighs, striding purposefully down the hallway. The economy of the planet? _Really?_ What was his real question?

Sybok prided himself into believing that he could read the subtext of anyone, able to see the hidden meaning of anything. Jim Kirk frustrated him—there was not subtext, it was as if he was as simple as he seemed. But he was a Starfleet Captain and while he did not have the highest opinion of the Federation, he knew they didn't give just anyone a Captain's title. Jim Kirk _earned_ it, but he is not sure how much of it was intelligence and how much of it was just sheer luck.

He sighs, tiring of the subject of Jim Kirk. There are just too many things to consider, with such little time to do it in. He has other things to deal with today. After all, today is the day he takes Nyota as his and kills his brother.

Today, he thinks brightly, will be a good day.


	18. Chapter 18

**AtanaM and mhgood are amazing people. Nar wouldn't be the story that it is without them and for that I am forever in their debt.**

She wakes from her restless sleep, the thousand pound weight from last night still resting heavily on her shoulders. She sits up, rubbing her temples, knowing today she has to talk with Spock, tell him she knows, that she'll help him get back on the _Enterprise_ and get his hormones regulated before he dies.

She looks over to the desk and she notices that the book from the library is still there. Panic fills her. What if Sybok realizes that the book is missing? What if he figures out what's wrong with Spock and uses it to hurt him somehow?

Oh god.

She rushes out of the bed she had fallen into last night in a fit of exhaustion, not even bothering to change out of the clothes she was wearing last night. She knows she looks like a mess, but she'll worry about that later, once she knows the book is back in its place and she only has to worry about talking with Spock. She splashes some water on her face, pulling the hair back from her face, securing it haphazardly with some elastic before she grabs the book, slips on a pair of slippers, and walks out her bedroom door and towards the library.

She mentally kicks herself for being so nervous about talking with Spock. It's _Spock_. They do not keep secrets from each other. Well, that's not completely true. She doesn't tell him how she hates the fact that that after 23 centuries, there haven't been medical advances in menstrual medication. She doesn't tell him how sometimes at four in the morning she really craves a hamburger and sometimes she's just pissed for no reason at all.

He simply wouldn't get it.

She needs him to get this, to understand that this conversation needs to be open and honest between them, if he's going to get out of this alive. She can't have his Vulcan sensibilities, or his crazy hormones get in the way.

She sneaks into the library, thankful that no one has seen her. She goes to put the book back when she hears a voice.

"Lieutenant, may I have a word?"

She jumps, sucking in a breath, in her mind cursing in Klingon.

She composes herself, her face becoming a perfect Vulcan mask of impassivity and turns on her heel. "What do you have to say, Sybok?" She grinds out.

He bows his head. "I deserve that. I wanted to apologize to you. My behavior was reprehensible yesterday. I came on too strongly, tried to force things...you. I am sorry. I shouldn't have said the things I said to you."

He sounds so sincere, and she softens, just a little bit. "No, you shouldn't have. But I accept your apology."

He takes a step closer to her, his head leaning down toward her neck and takes a giant intake of breath. "You smell...amazing." He rumbles, his lips way too close to her ear, her skin. "Are you wearing perfume?"

Ugh, he is so _weird._ "No, I'm not," she says shortly, the wall behind her the only thing keeping her from taking a physical step backwards. "If you'll excuse me, I need to go." She sidesteps him, and starts to walk out.

"Before you leave, Uhura--"

She whirls around, about to tell him that she would prefer it if they stuck to titles for now.

He is close, much to close. She can feel the heat of him, smell his unique scent. It's not like Spock's—it's much too strong and she hates it. The cologne is too strong and he's wearing too much of it and she wants to gag. She's not sure how he managed to get so near to her, she doesn't want to know. She wants him to go away, she wants his scent to stop invading her nose, his warmth to not be so close to her body.

"What I meant to say was that I should have phrased my wording differently." His voice is low, soft, dangerously calm as he steps closer to her still. "You see, I am in love with you, I have been since the moment I saw you. I cannot sleep at night, cannot fathom sleeping with anyone else but you. I want you, Nyota. I need you. We are meant to be together. Do you not believe in destiny?"

"I am meant to be with Spock. I love him," she says firmly, turning to go. "Stop it, Sybok, I mean it."

He shakes his head. "You don't. You cannot understand what it is like to be loved by a real Vulcan. You might, _might_ be loved by him, though whatever you experienced with that disgusting half-breed isn't--"

She spins around before she can completely think it through, slapping him. It was foolish, she knows, logically that he can do some serious damage to her, but no one insults Spock to her face and gets away with it.

He shakes his head, his fingers touching lightly, almost caressing where she slapped him. He then smirks at her, grabs her, kissing her, laying an assault on her lips.

"You will love me, Nyota," he murmurs huskily. "You think of Spock, but soon your mind will be filled with me, the love I can give you, the nights of passion we can have--"

His tongue tries to find its way into her mouth so she bits his lip, hard, tasting iron in the emerald blood. He bites out a curse, taking a step back involuntarily. She takes a sense of satisfaction out of it, having the dominant hand in this fight. She twists away, running towards the door.

She needs to get out of here—she needs to find Spock, get out of here, get back on the _Enterprise_--

Hands grab her and she kicks and flails, fighting with all of her might.

"You are willful, I'll give you that," he whispers in her ear, pulling her close to his chest, sending shivers down her body. "But no matter. I like my women feisty. No man wants a woman to just lie there in his bed—unless, of course, there are restraints involved," he chuckles.

She kicks backwards, hearing the satisfying crack of her heel meeting his shin and he groans. "You _bitch_," he gasps. He spins her around, his hands gripping her upper arms hard enough to make her cry out in pain. "You'll pay for that! Your first lesson in dominance, Nyota--" he pulls her against his chest with one arm, so tightly it almost knocks the wind out of her, crushing the breath out of her, he moves his fingers of his other hand across her face, caressing, until they move to her contact points.

* * *

He studies the door, must figure it out, must find a means of escape before Kirk takes Nyota.

She is near, he can feel it. They are not officially bonded and he must remedy that. His mind taunts him, presents him with all the times in which he could have brought it up, made a proposal to her. His body screams at him for not doing so, for not having a sense of completeness it desperately craves.

He takes a deep breath, trying to concentrate, trying to quell the shouts and the taunts that menace him.

As he tries to unlock the door for the twelfth time, he is overwhelmed by the sense of fear, anger and possession that overtakes him. He knows, instinctively that Nyota is in danger and he must go to her, right now. His mate needs him, needs his protection.

He manages to calms his thoughts for a moment and regard the door again. The metal is not thick and of an inferior quality. He puts his hands against it, tapping, searching for the thinnest, weakest spot. He delivers a roundhouse kick to the door. Nothing. A second, nothing. A third… it holds fast. . He feels the dented metal again, his fingers light, almost gentle until he finds exactly what he's looking for. He backs up to the far side of the room. Breathing deeply, trying desperately to center himself despite the voices whirling in his head, the storm raging inside of him, refusing to abate, if just for a little while. He has one chance at this, he will not have the energy required for another. He gathers everything he has and runs flat out at the door, jumping and twisting at the last moment so that both feet slam into the door with all the force in his body. The door doesn't so much break as it shatters in two, the metal giving way with a high pitched whine. He rolls to his feet in the hallway, stares at the destruction and quirks an eyebrow, the adrenaline in his system dissipating enough for him to be impressed for a moment at what he has done to the door, but he quickly dismisses the thought. He has other concerns.

He has to find Nyota.

She is not in her room. The library. The thought presents itself to him with stunning clarity and it makes complete sense.

He runs there. He must find her. There is no other goal, no other objective right now.

He finds the library, relying on pure instinct. For once, he doesn't calculate his speed and his estimated time of arriving at his destination. He doesn't consider the ramifications of arriving a second late, a second early. He only thinks of Nyota, of getting to her before it is too late.

He hears her elevated breathing, her heartbeat. She is scared, but she fights. She is fighting her captor, because she is Nyota, his woman, his mate, his lover, and she would not do anything else.

He smiles. She is strong, willful, proud.

Most importantly, his.

He bursts open the door, the sight that meets him sends a growl rattling from deep within his chest.

Sybok has one arm around her waist, pulling up against him. His other hand carcasses her face, his fingers moving into a pattern he recognizes, a pattern he has used dozens of times himself.

This man is about to perform a mind meld on Nyota.

"_No,"_ he growls.

Sybok looks up, smiles. "Ah, brother," he says causally, as if they were chatting over coffee, rather than having a conversation while Nyota struggles in Sybok's arms. "So nice to see you. But if you don't mind, Nyota and I are in the middle of something. Could you come back later?"

"Get off of her!" He lunges, pulling Sybok off of her, making sure not to harm Nyota.

She stumbles to a corner, afraid to get near the two brothers locked in a dog fight. Sybok scares her and, more importantly, Spock does as well. His eyes have always been the one window to his humanity, but that humanity is gone and now they shine like a furnace, as if he is on fire, a fever raging through his system. His teeth are bared, his muscles taunt. This is the Spock who can kill a man, who will do so, if he perceives a danger. He thrills her, tantalizes her, and scares her.

Sybok laughs, his lanky body sliding easily into a fighter's crouch as the two brothers begin to circle one another. "Touchy, touchy, little brother, are you really that blind? Nyota came to me last night, begging to be loved by a real man. She wanted to know what it was like, desperately wanted to know what it was like to be taken, ravaged, even..._fucked_."

Spock's only response is his quickened breathing and a spin kick to the right which Sybok easily outsteps.

He chuckles. "You haven't had her yet, have you? Oh, that's rich, brother of mine. You have the most beautiful woman in the universe, what is that phrase you pathetic humans use? Oh yes, a Helen of Troy in reality, and you--what? Play chess with her? Discuss science and languages and other boring subjects? Can you make love to her? Or has your hybrid status made you a eunuch, Spock?"

Sybok's tendency to ramble and flippant attitude belie his speed and fighting skill. With lighting efficiency, he delivers a move of his own catching Spock's middle, sending him stumbling and knocking the wind out of him for a second.

"I...love," Spock gasps for breath, falling back into his fighting crouch and the circling begins once again, "her. Something...you do not...understand."

"What I do not understand? What _is_ there to understand? I am a man, she is a woman in need of a man. It is simple, really. You, Spock, are the one who seems to have trouble understanding. You are too stupid to even recognize the signs of your own body. How is your Pon Farr, little brother? By now I would estimate you are about to entire Plak Tow."

Spock falters for a moment at Sybok's words but retains enough of his focus to dodge out of the way when Sybok launches another attack on him.

"Well," he pauses, changing tactics and circling in the opposite direction. "It will make my job easier. After all, killing you was on my to-do list for today, but it would be great if the blood fever did that for me, and all I had to do was have sex with Nyota."

"You bastard," she snarls, getting up and advancing.

Spock holds up hand in her direction, but keeps his eyes on Sybok. "No."

She stops abruptly, having never heard that tone from him before. It is cold, hard, deadly. It sends a shiver down her spine and dispels all thoughts of disobeying him.

The puzzle pieces pull and twist in his mind, fitting together.

He is not insane. His mind is not lost.

He is, instead, more Vulcan than he ever thought he could be, more than anyone ever thought he could be.

The doctors told his parents that his partial Human DNA overrode the biological urge when he was fourteen, while other Vulcan boys entered their Pon Farr, and Spock was left behind.

Now, at the age of 28 Terran years, he has proven wrong all of the Vulcan doctors and geneticists.

He smiles.

Sybok frowns. "What do you have to smile about, Spock? You are not bonded to her, after all. You cannot mate with her until you have fully bonded with her and as you haven't yet, I doubt you will, for fear of hurting her. Which means," he smiles as the idea comes to him, "I claim her under the rites of Koon-ut-kal-if-fee."

Spock shakes his head. "You cannot. Nyota has not chosen you as her challenger. Surak's writings state that a woman has the right to choose--"

Sybok rolls his eyes, sighing. "I invoke the right of pure koon-ut-kal-if-fee, the ancient rites before the perversion of the repressed dog posing as a philosopher. Nyota," he looks at her with a wolfish smile on his face, "does not have to choose me, as she is unbonded to you, mentally and physically. She goes to whomever is strong enough to take her. I challenge your claim on her, brother, and I will win."

Spock stands straighter, baring his teeth. "I accept your challenge, Sybok."

Sybok claps his hands once. "Good. The fight will commence tomorrow. I must prepare. Guards!"

A handful of brutish looking Vulcans come to Sybok's call. "Take Spock and Nyota to the catacombs." He turns to her. "See, beloved? I am merciful. I am allowing you one last day and night to be with Spock before I kill him, and take you as my own. Granted he doesn't kill you first."

"You disgust me," she chokes out, the guards pulling her away.

"You won't think so tomorrow night!" he calls after her.

* * *

Kirk watches Sybok walk out of the dining room, wondering how he can sneak out of the castle undeced. He wants to go back to the city and find this laboratory T'ranah mentioned. It has to be in the bad part of the city—that must be why Shylock discouraged them from going too deep into that section of that part of town. He'll have to use the hoverbike again, granted he can get to the garage undetected.

He finishes his breakfast, leaving the plate next to Sybok's. He goes back to his room, wanting to make one more call before he goes to the city.

"Kirk to the _Enterprise. _Transfer me to Engineering."

"Aye, Keptin."

"Hello?" Kirk hears Scotty's burr over the whirr of the engineering room.

"Scotty, it's Kirk. What can you tell me about red matter."

"What do you want to know?" Scotty asks him.

"Start at the beginning," Kirk tells him dryly.

"Alright," Scotty begins. "It's made from decalithium, which is like gold, wrapped in titanium, shaped like the holy grail in terms of rarity. Red matter is highly unstable—it was discovered and produced by the Vulcan Science Academy, and then the Romulans got it and we learned what happens when you share your toys with the neighborhood bully."

Kirk smiles grimly. "How is red matter activated?"

"Heat," Scotty replies nonchalantly. "It has to be a lot of it—like the heat of the core of a planet or the heat of an exploding star, or starship, you get the gist."

"Yeah, I get it, thanks."

"No problem. All right, Captain?"

"Soon enough, Scotty. I still have some...things to take care of, but I should be back on the _Enterprise_ soon. Kirk out."

He is on better footing now, at least knowing what he is dealing with. He is making an assumption that it is indeed red matter, though he can't think of what else it could possibly be. He sneaks out of his bedroom, hoping to get to the garage without passing anyone in the halls.

He once again thanks his Kirk luck as he walks in undetected, putting on a helmet and getting on a hoverbike. The sooner he makes this trip into the city, the sooner he can get back and out of here.

He hopes Spock and Uhura are making plans with the _Enterprise_ to beam aboard soon. Despite that fact, he wishes they were here with him. He could use Spock's logic, Uhura's language skills, and it would be nice to know that someone had his back, that there were people around him that he would trust with his life.

He shakes his head, clearing his thoughts. He's Captain. Some missions are not meant to be solo.

He makes his way to the city, not stopping to browse through the market place or observe the people. He has a mission. He has to complete it.

He remembers where the city turned from welcoming and intriguing to sinister and foreboding. He goes there, noting the looks he's given by the other Vulcans, wondering if maybe he should have disguised his appearance somehow.

Too late for that. Already the streets are dirtier, the scent changing from spices to trash. Children beg him to give them food—he knows enough Vulcan to garner that, while prostitutes appraise him, whispering to each other. The buildings look abandoned as if there were, at one point, a revitalization project, but someone decided it wasn't worth it revitalizing this part of the city.

"You're the Starfleet Captain," a voice says behind him.

He looks over his shoulder. One of the prostitutes has gotten bold and has actually approached him.

The term Vulcan prostitute is jarring to him. To him, Vulcans are a repressed race—hell, Spock looked like he was going to puke when Kirk asked him after too many rounds of Jack if he and Uhura were having sex. Spock had gotten all green and refused to answer the question.

Now here he is—has just slept with a Vulcan concubine and had the scars to prove it, and now he is talking to a Vulcan prostitute.

Starfleet training said nothing about this.

She is wearing a lot of eye make-up and it is elaborately done, too. Her neckline is lower than that of the other Vulcan women he saw, her skirt shorter, her movements more lascivious. She exuded sex—a quality Krik didn't think anyone truly had, save Orions.

And some humans.

"Yeah," he told her. "I am. Sybok wanted me to see the laboratory he has here, but I think I'm lost and the thing is," he grins his most charming smile at her, "I'm supposed to be meeting Shylock soon. Do you think you can help me?"

She eyes him. "What is it worth to you?"

Kirk blinks.

"I'm a working girl," she continues. "Food just doesn't fall on my lap because I spread my legs for every pretty smile I see. The world is tit for tat, measure for measure, and there isn't rest for people like me."

He is rather bemused by her speech and has to give her credit for seeing things the way they are.

"Fair enough. I've got two stones of amethyst that are yours if you'll tell me where the lab is."

She nods, hand outstretched.

He shakes his head. "Nuh-uh. I wasn't born yesterday. Information first."

She frowns, cleanly not liking the way this negotiation is going. "But how do I know you won't walk away once I tell you?"

Kirk considers it. "A stone as down payment, another when you give me the information."

She thinks it over, finally accepting his terms. "Fine. I've noticed there is a building with light coming out of it at all hours of the day, and people coming and going as they please, with no thought of time. You go down this street and turn right. That street has four alleys. Go down the second one, open the door and the building is there."

"And how do I know this is the place I'm looking for? How do I know you're not just making this up?"

She shrugs. "That's just a risk you're going to have to take. You're the one who's lost. Perhaps next time you'll have a map."

He laughs, kind of liking her sass. "Thank you," he drops the second stone in her hand. She gives him a toothy smile, walking away with a swing to her hips.

Kirk follows her directions explicitly, hoping the prostitute believes his lie and doesn't question his motives or mention his comings and goings to anyone.

He parks the bike in the first alley. If it gets stolen, it gets stolen—he couldn't really care any less about Sybok's feelings right now. He walks down the second alley, opening the door.

The building looks abandoned, just like all the others. There is nothing to suggest that this one is more special than the others, hiding some secret laboratory.

Still, he investigates. He finds the door locked, this he finds surprising. He circles the building, finding a broken window on the other side. The hole is big enough for him to climb through and he does, managing to get in with little noise. He looks for stairs, any stairs going down underground. Finding some, he walks to the lower floor of the building.

He starts to hear noises--whirs and drips and other miscellany machine noises. He is getting closer--just a little farther...

There is a big observation window looking inside the lab. In the middle is a machine--obviously meant to stabilize the thing inside it. Groups of scientists work at tables along the parameter, engrossed in their work. Some are checking reports, some are examining rocks, others diagramming things, making maps.

"Have you seen everything you want to see, Kirk?" Shylock asks.

Kirk jumps. "I wanted to talk to you—about the economy of A-75. Sybok suggested I do so and said you were in the city today--"

Shylock holds up a hand. "I know when a man is lying to me, Kirk. Do not insult my intelligence."

Kirk stops and tries a different tactic. "What are you doing here?"

Shylock ares at him as if the answer is disgustingly obvious. "I am making a profit."

"You're making illegal weapons."

Shylock shrugs. "What is the difference between legal and illegal? The weapon is still the same."

Kirk stares at him, unbelieving Shylock's amorality. This weapon has the potential to destroy an entire planet—eradicate an entire species of humanoids. Into the wrong hands the Federation could be torn to shreds.

What is the difference between legal and illegal?

Tons. Multitudes. Scores.

"Shylock, I can't let you do this. I can't let you let this weapon into the universe. In the wrong hands--"

He laughs. "And you think it is better in the hands of your Federation? Don't think they'll use it on Romulans, Klingons, anyone who stands in their way? What makes a Federation life better than any other?"

Kirk takes a breath, hoping to stall, wishing that he and Spock had a conversation that involved Spock telling him a Vulcan's weak spot or, how to effectively kill one.

Kirk takes a deep breath. "Starfleet is a peace keeping operation, Shylock. We're not out to blow people up."

Shylock laughs harshly. "You have a lot to learn about the world, boy. But you'll have to learn about it in the catacombs."

Fear strikes him. He has no idea what the catacombs are, but they aren't good."What?"

"I can't just let you go. You have seen too much. You plan to go back to your Federation ship, tell them of what you've seen. I have business to protect, Kirk."

The Vulcan's grip is too strong and Kirk can't fight him off. The punch, when delieverd, to the side of his face dazes him and he starts to see stars. Shylock has little trouble dragging him off, taking him outside.

"What did you take to get here?"

"Go to hell," Kirk tells him, nursing his sore jaw.

Shylock sighs impatiently. "It had to be one of the hoverbikes. I'll have it delivered back to Sybok's palace. You and I will take my hovercar."

They go into a modified hovercar, a vehicle that is much more luxurious than Kirk is used to. He admires it, and then remembers the source of money for this moded hovercar. He becomes slightly sick to his stomach.

The 'car's fast, and they make it back to Sybok's palace with stunning speed. Shylock grips his arm again once they step out, barking to a servant that he needs to see Sybok immediately.

Shylock drags Kirk to a sitting room Kirk has never been to before. There are couple of couches, a few chairs. There is a 3D chess set set up in the corner, a Vulcan harp in another corner.

Sybok strolls into the room, tightening the knot of his robe. "What could you possibly want, Shylock? I was in the middle of saying hello to a very good female friend."

Kirk swears he hears Shylock sigh in irritation, but his voice betrays no such emotion. "Sybok, I found Kirk spying on the lab. He is your guest, not mine and as such I figured you would want to know about it. The quicker you tell me what to do with him, the quicker you can get back to your...activities."

Sybok's face hardens, clearly angry. "What did you see, Kirk?" he growls.

Kirk meets his gaze defiantly. "You making illegal weapons."

"One man's illegal is another's injustice. I am protecting the interests of my planet. How are these weapons illegal, Captain?"

Kirk holds his tongue, not wanting to implicate T'ranah. "A weapons lab in the shadiest part of town, underground to boot? That doesn't scream of legitimacy, Sybok."

Sybok smiles slyly, shrugging one elegant shoulder. "Well, it doesn't really matter. It seems the catacombs will have more than just two prisoners today." He sighs, and for a second Kirk thinks Sybok almost looks sad he has to do this. "I really did like you, Jim. It is a pity that you became a nuisance."

* * *

They are taken--shoved, more like, down a series of stairs, finally down to the catacombs. They are now underneath the palace, Nyota takes a moment to observe. The air is damp and cold now, there are torches in the recesses on the walls, illuminating the labyrinthine corridors, and her eyes sting until they adjust to the lack of light. They twist and turn until eventually Nyota loses where they are going.

Finally the guards stop, opening up a door within the wall of the catacomb. She didn't realize it was there until it was pulled open and then she looks more closely—there are more of these doors and she wonders how many people have been kept down here at the will of Sybok. She shivers, from the cold or her thoughts, she isn't sure. They shove her and Spock into the room, which is little more than a jail cell. There is a small cot and a torch on one wall, but besides that, there is nothing.

They slam the door behind them, locking it, their footsteps echoing until Nyota can't hear them anymore.

Spock is pacing, breathing heavily. "Nyota...," he grates out, his voice heavy with emotion. "I am sorry. I did not know...did not realize what was happening to me."

"I did," she says quietly.

He stops his pacing. "What?"

"I did some research last night—I was so worried about you after you left my room—and I read this old Vulcan book about biology and realized what was happening to you. I was going to talk to you, ask you to beam back aboard the _Enterprise_ with me so we could regulate your hormonal levels."

He shakes his head. "Brilliant work as always, ashayam, but that will not help me, Nyota. Maybe, I recognized the symptoms of my condition earlier...my options are...limited, now."

She raises an eyebrow. "How much more limited can mate or die be?"

He shakes his head again, frustrated with her. "No. You do not understand. I cannot mate with you, Nyota. You cannot possibly understand what that...entails, mating with a Vulcan. I could easily kill you, and I will not allow myself to do so."

"What will you do then?" she asks angrily.

He considers her question. "Meditate, for now. I have read that...physical combat can quell the fever, in some cases. Perhaps the fight with my brother possibly will be enough, and any lingering...urges will be taken care of through intense meditation."

"Spock," she steps near him, her hand outstretched in order to touch his face.

"Do not touch me!" he snarls. She snatches her hand away, frightened by his emotion, the raw, bestial lust she sees in his eyes.

"Nyota," his breath ragged now. "This room is small; I have trouble being near you right now, and not taking you. Please, stay away from me, as much as possible."

She nods, trying to will the tears from spilling.

She goes to one corner of the room, he the other, preparing to meditate. She watches him, considering their exchange.

Does she know what it entailed, making love to a Vulcan? She knows they are stronger, much stronger than a human. She knows, in the back of her mind, that unchecked Spock could easily crush her ribs, or break her arm, but she has trouble believing he could _kill _her.

It simply isn't in him. Or so she has always believed, now she isn't completely sure...

In truth she had dreamed about it—him taking her forcefully, she would have to be blind and stupid to not appreciate his attractiveness and fantasize about it, on occasion, how it would be to just surrender and let him do whatever, however, whenever he wanted to her, but now it was real, very much real. The careful veneer that had taken years to construct would be gone, if they had sex right now, and she wonders how much of the Spock she knows would remain.

She loves him—it was a fact she is certain of. She loves him and would do anything for him. For now, and the foreseeable future, he is the man she wants to spend her life with, the man who understands her. He understands when she becomes consumed by a project, or a transmission. He understands her need for space sometimes, and while he finds it illogical, he understands when she needs him to be close to her. He respects her, even appreciates and cultivates her intellectual curiosity.

She would have to bond with him, in order to help him through his pon farr. He would be inside her head and she his, and the thought is slightly creepy, someone in her _mind_, the very personal corners where she keeps secrets, shames, fantasies, the very essence of who she was. They would be completely open to each other, nothing held back, nothing shaded in darknes. The more she contemplates it, the more familiar it becomes, the more she thinks about bonding with Spock, the more she welcomes it, welcomes his presence in her mind.

As for the sex...it would be rough. She would probably need some painkillers. They would need to find a way to temper his strength, to keep him from killing her. She winces, unsure if she's ready for the sheer roughness of the sex. But this isn't about her pleasure. It is about keeping Spock _alive_. It is about saving the life of someone she desperately loves, someone she cannot imagine her life without.

She looks over at Spock trying desperately to meditate in the corner, shaking as the fever rakes through him. Her Vulcan is stubborn, it seems, content in killing himself before having sex with her in order to save his life.

She isn't sure if she's offended or charmed by his chivalry.


	19. Chapter 19

**Sometimes writing is like being in a pitch black room, trying to find a light switch. Us who are fortunate to have fantastic betas are equipped with flashlights in our pitch black rooms, and are able to find the light switches that much more easily. I dedicate, as always, this chapter to my betas, for lighting the way when I have no idea where I'm going.  
A second A/N: AtanaM is amazing. She goes above and beyond a beta's duties to be super-beta, and without her tireless work, Nar wouldn't be the story that it is now. She finds mistakes that I would never have found in a million years and because she gets it, because she wants it to be as perfect as I do, she makes sure that those mistakes are corrected.  
In short, if I could, I'd make AtanaM into a superhero.**

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_The first time they kiss, it is like fire. They are in his office, late at night, as always. She is working on grading papers, he is working on the next day's lesson plans for his Advanced Vulcan classes. She finishes, setting the PADDs on his desk. As she does so her stomach rumbles, a protest against her working habits of late. She lets out a little laugh, the one that she uses when she is embarrassed, and she mentions that to be perfectly honest, she hates the Academy cafeteria food. His lips quirk. He remembers making the same observation as a cadet and finds it to be a benefit of being an officer of Starfleet that he is no longer required to take all of his meals in the cafeteria. _

_He mentions to her that if the cafeteria is not to her tastes, perhaps she would like to go to the Indian restaurant she found so pleasing last week?_

_The look she gives him is different from the looks she has given him before. He knows Nyota's looks—the determined look of concentration when she is translating a particularly difficult passage, the light in her eyes when she finds something amusing, the tilt of her head when he says something that interests her. This look is decidedly different—the light in her eyes so much brighter than the light of laughter, she looks as if she does not quite believe what he is suggesting. Has he overstepped his bounds? But they have dined together before—is tonight somehow different? He does not know what to do. He knows what he wants to do, knows his wishes and desires and fancies, but he does not know what to say. _

_She smiles a soft smile, standing from her desk and walking towards him. "Why, Commander Spock, are you asking me out on a date?"_

_Date. It comes from the Latin, an ancient Terran language, data, defined as a social appointment, __engagement, or occasion arranged beforehand with another person._

_He stares at her. Date. Yes, this is a date. But he also knows, though in theory not in practice, the word "date" in the sense of pursuing a partner in the hopes of gaging their suitability as a mate. But cannot friends go on dates? Date: an appointment at a preset time. There are no romantic connotations. No implications of finding a mate. Yet the word is often used to describe an activity in which one is persuing a romantic partner. Her diction is frustratingly vague._

_She could be teasing him, he considers. A joke he does not understand, that his Vulcanity prevents him from understanding. Still, he is not sure and therefore cannot postulate an accurate conclusion and it frustrates him, this ambiguity. Her words suggest that she is joking, but her body language suggests that she is very much interested in his answer. She is leaning into him ever so slightly, her hand just a hair's breadth away from his on the desk. She worries her bottom lip with her teeth, making it blossom vermilion. In which way does she define the word "date?" What is the correct answer? He wishes, as illogical as it is to do so, that she does, that she wants to see him in a social capacity, to see him as more than just a colleague and a mentor. He speaks without forethought, for the second time in his life, and he feels the rush of freedom that comes from following one's own path, rather than the one is expected to take._

"_Yes, Nyota."_

_She gasps ever so slightly, her eyes widening. She steps away from the desk and he misses her presence, the warmth he felt from having her hand so near to his on the desk. He feels inexplicably cold without __her presence. Illogical. He is several degrees warmer in body temperature. _

_He panics. He chose the wrong answer. She was teasing. He has ruined the fragile friendship between them, he has lost the one person he could confidently call his friend in Starfleet. She will in all likelihood request a transfer, will allude to a violation of Starfleet Regulation 618. He will not fight her. She, after all, is completely within her rights to do so. She will no longer fill his office with her sunlight and her music, no longer bring him tea. They will not speak in languages they are the only ones to know, they will no longer work long into the night together and he will no longer have any reason to walk her to her dorm and wish her good night. His life will be so much emptier than it once was—a chaotic existence where there is no Nyota to guide him, to ground him when he needs it the most. He is unsure what he will do without her._

_He realizes that the silence has gone on too long—one of them should have spoken by now. Neither of them have, they are suspended in this silence, this torturous moment. He wishes she would end it—he cannot, he does not know how. He needs to to make it stop, needs her to show him what to do. He is gifted in many areas, but he also knows he is not perfect. It would be illogical to consider one to be perfect. This is one area in which he does not excel._

_He steels himself, preparing for the worst outcome."Perhaps it is not a good idea, Cadet," he manages to __choke out at last. "I will see you tomorrow," he adds this hopefully. He wants to see her tomorrow, wants her to be sitting at her desk, working on her assignments in his office, where she belongs._

_He stands up, clasping his hands behind his back, hoping, for once, that she will leave. She will be hurt __by his cold dismissal, but this is the only way. He will not jeopardize her career, or his. She will understand. She will not like it, he knows, but she is a logical woman, in her own way. She will see reason. He expects to see the look of hurt on her face, expects her to look down, bite her bottom lip and nod, and tomorrow she will not smile, she will not murmur good morning to him and the day will be filled with silence, because he has destroyed the warmth, the friendship between them._

_She does not do any of these things. She gives him another look, as if it is she who is the touch telepath and can see every single of his thoughts. As if she knows all of his secrets, all of his desires and what is more, she encourages them. She smiles, softly. There is acknowledgement in her eyes, acceptance._

_Determination._

"_Why isn't it a good idea, Spock?"_

_He swallows. "We will not be back before curfew. It is against regulations to be out after curfew."_

"_Ah, but the regulations specifically state that it is against regulations when unaccompanied by a superior officer. It will be obvious to any observer, Commander, that we were working on an assignment, we lost track of time. Especially if we take tomorrow's lesson plans with us, we won't even be lying."_

_Her logic threatens to seduce him into agreeing. He pushes it away. "Cadet, you are twisting the wording of the rules to suit your purposes. What is more, despite such...props to the contrary, observers __could construe such...activities as misconduct between a superior officer and a cadet, which is strictly forbidden."_

_Her brow furrows, as it always does when he says something she does not expect. She does not cease, __does not concede to his argument and leave his office. She steps closer to him. She is too close, her scent and physical proximity making him feel a faint sense of vertigo. She reaches down, slowly and deliberately taking his hand from behind his back and placing it in hers, sliding her palm against his. The contact is electrifying, every neuron and synapse in his body suddenly on fire. He is finding it suddenly very difficult to breathe._

"_Then it is the possibility of breaking Starfleet regulations you object to, and not us dating?" She has stepped closer to him, there is no space between them now. She has tilted her head to look him fully in the eyes. Hers hold a sense of invitation and longing and he desperately wants to know for what, wants to know what it is that she is trying to tell him, and then he feels through their palms, her affection, desire, all for him. _

"_Nyota," he breathes. _

_She stands on tip-toe, pressing herself more fully against him, both of their hands now fully in contact. "Some rules are meant to be broken, Spock," she whispers against his lips._

_He is not sure who moves first. He is not sure it matters, it is a string, wound too tightly, finally springing free, finally releasing, what matters, he knows, is that he, S'chn T'gai Spock, is kissing Nyota Uhura. _

_Her lips are soft, remarkably so. He did not realize that lips can be so soft, so smooth, before today. He __had speculated, as illogical as it was, on the tactile qualities of Nyota's lips, yet theory has nothing on application, reality far exceeding the possibilities of fantasy._

_He wants to continue, wants to continue experiencing her, though the Vulcan part of his brain, of his __personality is telling him, in no uncertain terms, that it is unacceptable to be kissing Nyota—Cadet Uhura. This is disastrous to both of their careers. The implications alone are catastrophic._

_He does not listen. He has wanted to kiss her, touch her, be close to her for so long, but it was impossible. The impossible has suddenly happened and he cannot help but marvel at the fact._

_She is the one who breaks the kiss, leaning back just enough to smile at him. He finds his hands are encircling her waist, pulling her against him, her breath still warm on his lips._

"_We should hurry—the restaurant closes soon."_

_There are approximately a million things to be said right now, but he finds he has no wish to say any of them, and ruin this incredible moment. He merely nods and follows her out of the office._

The fire burns through him, taunting him, ripping him out of his meditation attempt with an agonizing groan. He can feel her lips, as if their first kiss just happened, though it is illogical. It was two years, one month, three weeks, and six days ago. The fever laughs; it does not care, it bombards him with images, of her, of them. He could have her, right now, in this cell. He could go to her, she would not fight him. He would go to her, seduce her. He would murmur Vulcan words to her, words of love and passion in her ear as his hands roamed over her body. He would wait for the hitch of her breath, and then kiss her neck, wait for her body to slacken, for her unspoken consent to do what he wants with her. He would remove her clothing, article by article, until she is laid before him, completely open, his for the taking.

And he would _take_.

* * *

"Nyota," he growls, his grin feral-like.

She lifts her head, looking in his direction. She had previously been staring at a wall, a thoughtful expression on her face.

"What's wrong, Spock?" She asks, her voice laced with curiosity and a tiny bit of fear. He is kneeling, as if he is ready to pray or pounce, she is not sure. He is barefoot, shirtless, his usually immaculate hair tousled, his head titled to the side as he regards her. His breathing is ragged, deep, the sweat slick on his chest. His hands are sliding rhythmically up and down his thighs, his eyebrow raised and a wicked grin on his face. His eyes are dilated so much they look obsidian. She can feel the lust coming off of him, as if he is imagining a thousand different ways to make love to her.

Spock is not in there.

This scares her. She knew there was a chance that he would not be there—that Pon Farr would bring out something in him that she had never seen before, that for all intensive purposes, he is not Spock. She had hoped to be wrong, that despite her suspicions there would still be the man she knew, the man that had taught her so much at the academy, that had been something more than her best friend, had shown her that relationships were deep, profound connections far more irrevocable that she could have ever imagined. The man that had always treated her with nothing but gentleness and respect. The man that came to her when he hurt would still be in there, somewhere.

He isn't.

She presses herself further into her corner, gaping at him.

Would he go back to Spock, her Spock when his fever broke? Would he be able to touch her without her remembering him as he is, right here, right now?

He stands in one fluid motion that borderlines on balletic, pacing. "I need you, ashayam," he murmurs, his voice soft and pleading. "I burn for you."

She gulps, his words sending shivers down her spine, his eyes making her apprehensive.

"Please," he rasps. "Help me quench the fever. Let me show you what I feel for you, how much I desire you, always."

"Spock," she moans.

His grin grows wider, as if he knows he's winning.

"Spock," she stops for a moment to gulp more air. Suddenly the cell seems so much smaller and she finds it difficult to concentrate. "You have to stop. You can't do this—we can't do this. You said it was too dangerous."

He moans, writhing slightly, his voice now a slight, petulant whine. "Nyota, do not taunt me this way."

"I'm not, I'm not, Spock. I want to help, I really do, but we need to get you to the _Enterprise_--"

He snarls. "So you can be with the captain?"

She looks at him, shock and anger momentarily replacing the fear. "What in the hell are you talking about?!"

"I know the way Kirk looks at you. I know he desires you for himself. He will take advantage of my weakness...take you for his own."

"I allow no one to take me," she hisses. "I am not an object to be possessed."

He snarls at her, his voice dangerously low. "You are mine."

"By choice," she whispers.

He is on her before she can take a full step back, pressing her against the wall of the cell with the length of his body. He kisses her lips hungrily, forcefully as his tongue twines roughly with hers, silencing and ceasing all protestations she may have had. His hands slide up her sides to her waist, smoothly boosting her up against the wall with a grip so tight on her waist, she knows she'll have finger shaped bruises, but as she wraps her legs instinctively around his waist, hearing his growl of approval, she is not sure if she cares about his aggression, or that she'll live to see tomorrow. She cares only for the liquid heat swirling down to her center, the feel of his teeth flexing against her skin as his mouth begins a slow journey of hot, open-mouthed kisses down her neck.

"Mine," he whispers against her skin.

His mind his open to her now, the faint link that opens whenever they touch flooding her senses with the force of his emotions. She is overwhelmed by it all, intoxicated by the very scope and breadth of his emotions. She wants him, right now, even in this cell, knowing fully what he might kill her. She doesn't care, she finds, she only wants him, needs him and the pleasure they can give each other. She wraps her arms more tightly around his neck, arching into him with a moan.

At the sound, he stops kissing her and she makes a sound of frustration, lowering her head to kiss his neck, his chest, every bit of skin she can reach.

"Nyota," he moans.

She makes an incoherent noise, rolling her hips against him as much as she can within the confines of his hands. Words are superfluous now. Their mouths and tongues can be used for so much more interesting things—why is he wasting it on talking?

"Nyota," he rasps, pressing her harder into the wall to stop her movements. "I cannot. I will not do this to you. Ashayam, I am...losing control..."

She stops kissing him to stare at him, shaking her head, trying with futility to clear her head . "You have to mate or die, Spock," she says quietly. "I read it, I know the consequences of Pon Farr, and I don't want you to die."

He trails his fingers against her face and she leans into his touch, feeling the swell of emotion tormenting him, the chaos that wracks him. She feels his love, the strong and unwavering passion he feels for her. She also feels how frightened he is right now, the loss of control a tidal wave he is desperately trying to stop, of becoming something capable of hurting her, of losing everything he has spent twenty-eight years creating, of losing his sense of self. She understands now. He is trying to make order out of the chaos his body and mind are creating, before he is unable to, and this isn't helping.

"It's alright," she tells him softly as he lets her down. "It's alright, we'll figure something out."

She feels the wave of gratitude, the wonder he feels because of her. She smiles shakily, desperately wanting to take the chaos away for him, to maintain the order he so greatly needs.

He stumbles back to his corner and prepares to mediate. She hopes he is right, that the fight tomorrow will be enough to break the fever. She knows he is strong enough to beat Sybok. She has enough faith in him, in them, in the future.

Still, she prays, to whomever is listening, just in case.

She is unsure of what else to do.

* * *

He had every notion of taking her. Right there, on the floor of the cell. Later, against the wall. Later still, on the cot.

Then he feels the love she has for him. It is warm, comforting, like the sunlight on Vulcan. It is pure, untainted by a feverish haze of lust caused by Pon Farr, and intermingled with her humanity, this fragile essence that takes his breath away, encompasses him far more than any fever. Nyota is different, special, and he cannot, will not, he refuses to use her like that. She deserves more than a base rutting in a damp, dark prison cell. She deserves greater than him.

He looks at her once more just before he enters his deep meditation. She has closed her eyes, a pained look on her face. He wants it to go away, he wants to be the one to make it go away, but he cannot risk losing control around her.

He sits, trying to center himself. It is difficult, he cannot find his center, his mind is too chaotic. There is no candle nor flame he can tame as his focus. The path to arei'mnu has always been a challenge, his humanity rebelling against the confines of Vulcan culture, his human passions only made stronger by his Vulcan blood sometimes pouring forth before he can stop them. The task is nearly impossible, the fire threatening to consume him. Still, he is determined; the alternative is an unacceptable one. He closes his eyes and begins to breathe, calming the most obvious aspect of his chaos. He slows his breathing, letting the rhythm and the words draw him within himself.

"To control a thing, one must first know a thing. Therefore it is only by acknowledging an emotion that one may overcome it. I embrace Kya'sink and seek to see all things with C'thia..."

He opens his eyes several hours later. Nyota is asleep on the cot. It is near morning. The guards will be coming for him soon.


	20. Chapter 20

**I couldn't have written this chapter without the fantastic work of my betas, AtanaM and mhgood. Thank you, as always. And thank you, reader, for keeping with Nar, even after such a delay (thanks, college!) and twenty chapters. Your dedication, and your reviews, makes it worth it. I swear, the PBS-esque announcement is over with, and you can go on to read Nar, without interruptions guilt tripping you into buying DVDs and a totebag. **

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He watches her, contemplating his control. Would he be able to say goodbye, be able to express his profound regard for her without giving into the fever? He has to conserve his strength, pour all of the emotions threatening to consume him into winning this fight. He had to live, has to survive this.

Nyota stirs awake, stretching on the cot. She sits up, looking at him with wide eyes.

"It is time, isn't it?" she asks him.

He nods, not trusting himself to speak.

"Spock," she begins, her voice rougher, huskier. "No matter what happens, you have to know—I have to tell you--"

He stumbles to her, taking her in his arms, pressing his forehead to hers. She closes her eyes, sighing. He does not close his eyes, he cannot. He wishes to memorize her.

"I know, ashayam."

* * *

The guards have come for him.

"Come. It is time for you to ridicule yourself," they tell him in Vulcan.

He looks to Nyota. She is beautiful, her mouth set to keep her from crying, her eyes dark and luminous. He wishes he could have had more time, that he could have expressed to her how much she means to him. It is illogical, it is quite possibly the height of illogic to have such latent regrets. What has happened has happened, and there was nothing he could do about it now.

She extends her fingers to him, her eyes downcast. He touches them, though not long enough for his satisfaction. He feels her love, her comfort, her protection intermingled with her fear, her sadness.

The guards tear them away, impatient.

"Enough," one says, tying Spock's hands behind his back. "Sybok does not have time for your foolishness."

They lead him out of the catacombs. He is certain he hears another voice, one that sounds like the Captain's, but he ascertains it to be the Plak Tow, wrecking havoc on his auditory senses. Wherever the Captain is, it is not here in the catacombs and he cannot help Spock now.

* * *

Her adun might die today.

She shoves the thought away, trying to concentrate on the fact that the hormones and adrenaline racing through his system will be an advantage rather than a penalty, but Sybok will play dirty. Se knows he is going to cheat, because men like him—selfish, arrogant, evil men--do not get by in this world through honest means.

Her adun might die today.

It is harder to push the thought away this time. It is stubborn, refusing to go away simply because she wills it to.

Nyota had come to the conclusion that she loved Spock and wanted to be with him for the foreseeable future when he materialized on the transporter deck with a battered Kirk, both of them triumphant in the battle against Nero. While she had a great amount of respect, attraction and affection for Spock prior to that, she could not with any sort of certainty say that she would spend her life with him. Vulcans mated for life, of course, but Spock had never brought up the subject of the future of their relationship, and, while she knew it fell on her shoulders to do so, Nyota wanted simply to enjoy her time with a man she could both kiss and have a conversation with.

She would recover if he died. She would, at the very least, try. He would never forgive her for such an illogical action as mourning him forever, she thought. Just like she would want him to be happy if anything happened to her. But, should such an event happen, it would leave a scar on her soul, and she doubts she would ever love anyone as deeply as she loves Spock. Part of her would always be his, a part that would refuse to open itself to any other man, no matter what, because she realizes now, Spock is her adun.

She sinks down to the cot, bringing her knees to her chest. She is stuck in limbo, a place between decisions where she cannot act, cannot foresee, cannot change the future. It's driving her crazy that she has no idea what this fight will entail, nor how it's going to go. She wants to pace, wants to kick and scream and quicken time so she can know the outcome of today, good or bad. Instead she sits, willing herself to be calm, patient. Raging at immobile steel doors and stone wall is...illogical. It helps nothing, it solves nothing, only serves to waste both precious time and energy. She smiles, taking comfort in the thought that her thoughts are so Spock-like. It makes her feel closer to him and she takes comfort in this.

It will be better to conserve her energy for the moment, and there _will_ be a moment when she can do something. She'll need to be both physically and mentally ready, her mind clear and sharp.

She takes a deep breath, centering herself, closing her eyes. _To control a thing, one must first know a thing. Therefore it is..._

"To be honest I'm surprised you're alive."

Her eyes fly open in surprise, seeing him in the cell with her and his voice makes her shiver out of surprise and revulsion. She feels like he is touching her, violating her, raping her.

If he sees her reaction, he makes no note of it. Instead, he considers something. What, she is not sure, but whatever it is, he's made a decision about it.

"Of course, I wasn't really expecting my little brother to give in. These so-called disciplined Vulcans act like Pon Farr is some kind of curse, a horrible period they must endure instead of enjoy. My brother should be thanking me. I put him and his girlfriend into a very nice cell, leave them to their own devices, what more did my brother need? Candles? Perhaps some music? I practically begged him to take you, to get through his Pon Farr the right way, the natural way. To claim you as a real man should. The fever should be reaching its peak. It'll begin to effect his organs, his heart, if it hasn't already." He makes a sound of disgust.

"By my estimation his brain is so clouded by hormones he will not be able to fight well." He pauses, looking at her. His eyes are so dark, nothing like the warm brown of Spock's.

"I'm sorry, for what's it's worth." There was a time where she might have started to believe him, but that time had long passed and had since been replaced with visceral hate and an element of fear. Would anyone hear her scream if he decided to kill her? Would anyone care?

"For what?" she hisses.

"You were supposed to have a memory, to know what it was like to be with him before I killed him."

She wants to vomit. His words, so callous, cut her like a knife. She stares at him, wishing that she had a phaser gun or _something_ so she could kill him and save both her and Spock a lot of trouble.

"You hate me," he says quietly. "I can feel it. However, emotions possess duality, Nyota. The intense hate and equally intense love. It is passion, do you not see?"

"Oh, I certainly see, Sybok. I even agree with you," she waits until the surprise and desire shines on his face. "What you don't see is I have an intense love, passion, for Spock and an intense hatred for his bastard of a brother!"

He growls, low in his throat, advancing towards her before he stops. He stares at her and she wonders wildly whether or not he'll kill her, whether or not he's crazy enough to do so, whether it will stop the fight then and save Spock's life.

"I can kill you. There is no one to stop me," he rasps.

"Do it," she challenges. "What do I have to lose?"

He scowls at her, then turns on his heel and leaves the cell, slamming the door behind him.

"We'll see how you feel when I kill Spock!"

She laughs, hysterically. He is like a comic book villain and she finds this incredibly amusing.

Her laughs become sobs and soon she is crying for Spock, for herself, for their predicament. She's crying in relief that Sybok didn't kill her. Despite what she told him, about having nothing to lose, she doesn't want to die today. She lets her stress and anger out, hoping that if she releases it, maybe she can have a clear head and come up with a plan.

She is drying her tears with the back of her hand when the door to the cell opens again. For a fleeting moment she thinks it's Spock, though she has not rationality for thinking this way. She jumps up, hoping that he will appear through the door. Instead, a Vulcan woman, scantily-clad in a skirt with two deep slits that show off her legs all the way to her thighs and what would be more appropriately be called a bikini top rather than a shirt, comes through the door, accompanied by two of the largest Vulcan males she has ever seen in her life. She quells her regret. She was hoping to make an escape, confident that she could take on a Vulcan woman.

She appraises Nyota and unconsciously Nyota stands straighter, raising her eyebrow to this Vulcan woman who is clearly judging her.

"Well, you're not as bad as I thought. Still, I have work to do. Come on, we do not have much time," the woman says to her.

Nyota frowns, unsure what is going on. "What?"

"We have to get you ready for the fight today. You will disrespect Sybok if you show up looking like this. There are street beggars who look better off than you do."

"Thanks," Nyota says acidly, wanting to tell this woman exactly what she's been through the past day. She doesn't, instead keeping silent as the guards bind her hands tightly and drag her roughly between them, following the woman.

The woman leads her out of the catacombs and back into the palace. The place has a nervous energy as servants run back and forth, preparing for the fight.

"Where is Spock?" Nyota asks the woman.

She shakes her head. "I do not know, it is none of my concern. Sybok asked me to prepare you, and so I must."

They enter a room that is as garish as a bedroom of the French royalty. The bed is a gold color, down to the sheets and pillowcases. There is a huge vanity along a wall, one that looks like it belongs in the costume room of a theater hall rather than in a bedroom.

"Sit," the woman commands.

Nyota doesn't move, instead standing, challenging the woman.

She scowls. "Sit or I will have them make you sit," stabbing her finger towards the guards standing at the door.

Nyota sits. The woman proceeds to brush and tug at her hair, every once in a while muttering to herself. Once, she tugs too hard and Nyota snaps at her "not so hard!" She is not six, this woman is not her mother and she is perfectly capable of brushing her own damn hair. But her hands are still bound together and there are two guards, perfectly willing to take her down if she decides to fight this woman.

The style, when it's finished, is elaborate. A bun high on her head, surrounded by small braids pinned into elaborate swirls and coils, with soft curls framing her face. It looks like something Helen of Troy would wear, or maybe one of those aristocratic girls in the 18th century.

Her hair, at least, was dignified. Which was more than she could say for the outfit.

* * *

"You've _got_ to be kidding me."

The woman frowns, shoving the clothing in front of Nyota. "This is what you wear. Sybok picked this out for you especially. You should be honored to wear such an outfit."

"How precious," she says, the sarcasm dripping from her voice. "And if I refuse?"

The woman smiles evilly, pointing to the guards. "Why don't you ask them?"

Nyota stares at the bits of fabric, suppressing the urge to shudder, then looks at the woman. "Well," she says impatiently, "aren't you going to untie me? I can't exactly get dressed in this...outfit...when my hands are tied together."

The woman considers this. "Fine. But remember, there are guards, only a few feet away."

Nyota sticks her hands out in front of her instently. The woman unties her hands and gives her few inches of cloth masquerading as an outfit.

Gaila had more conservative clothing than this. The skirt...she's not sure if it's even fair to call it a skirt, it's more like an extremely long loincloth, two pieces of plum fabric with gold embroidery held together with a wide belt made of the same material. As she puts it on, she realizes that the side of her leg, from thigh to ankle, is visible.

It's humiliating.

She holds up the second piece of clothing, trying to decide how, exactly, to put it on. She realizes it's a halter top, tying at her neck. It's made out of the same material as the loin-cloth/skirt and as she puts on the top, she realizes it only reaches an inch below her chest.

It's horrible and demeaning and she hates it that she has to wear this, but she has very little choice in the matter.

She fiddles with the tie at her neck some more and she realizes that one of the pins keeping her hair in place is making it's way out of the elaborate construction on her head. A weapon, she thinks. It's sharp enough to be, with enough force and the right application. She slips it out of her hair, pressing it into her palm.

She turns back to the woman. "Well?"

The woman gives her the once over before nodding. "Presentable. Come. The fight will start soon."

* * *

The sun is bright, hot, glaring. Nyota is escorted out, hands bound, to a courtyard she hasn't seen before, bigger than the one where they met Sybok. It is almost like a field, spacious and grassy, stone pillars setting a half Colosseum-like stage in the middle. The stones are set in arches and Nyota can't help but briefly admire the geometry that went into making this stage. Flowers that look like persian yellow roses intertwine themselves around the stone columns, creating a peaceful scene. It would be a nice place, Nyota thinks, a shame that a fight would be happening here today.

There are Vulcans congregating outside of the circle and Nyota realizes there are benches outside of the half-circle. A wave of nausea hits her. This is a spectator sport for them--an event of excitement. Sybok has made it so. This planet is his stage and all the people on it are his players. She, they, are merely participating in the next act.

She thinks she is going to be ill.

The Vulcans talk animately, excitement fizzing in the air. Some are taking bets, others are discussing the fight. She wants to yell at them, scream at them that is her Spock is fighting today,that a man could _die_ out there, and they're discussing it, gambling on it as if it was a show put on for the sole purpose of their amusement.

The Vulcan woman who accompanied her outside tugs her along, towards a bench that sits apart from the others, possessing the best view and angle for the fight. Both she and the woman sit, next to a few other Vulcans whom Nyota does not recognize.

"You are fortunate," the woman comments. "Koon-ut-kal-if-fee is hardly ever performed anymore. You have two men fighting over you. Of course, Sybok is by far the better man, but you should be flattered by the attention of two Vulcans, particularly since you are a human female."

Nyota raises her eyebrows at the woman, hardly believing her ears. "Personally," she says archly, "I prefer underdogs...it is my experience alpha-males are overcompensating for a physical deficiency."

The woman sputters, shocked by Nyota's words. Nyota smiles sweetly at her.

She hears booing from the crowd behind her and she sees Spock walking to the stones. His eyes are dark, focused, concentrating, but not on the crowd. She smiles. Spock is focused to win this, and she has yet to see Spock fail at anything he sets his mind to. He is shirtless, his subtly defined muscles catching the light of the sun.

Sybok strolls in, like the lead actor in a play, the lead singer in a band. He waves to the crowd, basking in their applause, their cheering. He turns to his brother. "Ah, Spock, how kind of you to join us," he says dryly.

Spock says nothing, staring at his brother. He looks like a predator, waiting for the opportune moment to strike.

"Our guest of honor is here as well, our very reason for commencing here today," Sybok continues. The audience laughs, like a sinister laugh track.

He strides confidently up to Nyota, taking her hand, lifting her hand so she is now standing. She looks at him through her eyelashes, her face solemn. "I would like to wish the fighters today good luck."

She banks on the fact that Sybok, in his egoism, will want to hear her praise him and wish him luck. He smiles, and nods.

"S'chn T'gai Spock," she addresses him in flawless Vulcan. He looks up, the mixture of shock, gratitude and love apparent on his face. "I wish thee luck, beloved, and name thee as my champion," she says loudly, proudly in the highest dialect of Vulcan.

She looks to Sybok. "Fvadt nas, dha'rudh,"she curses him in the lowest Romulan dialect, reserved only for slaves, servants, and beggars. The crowd gasps, hearing and understanding her every word.

He growls, low in his throat. He grabs her, turning them so they face both the audience and Spock. He is behind her, she can feel the heat of his breath on her neck.

"You seem to think," he growls in her ear, "that I find your filthy, filthy mouth unattractive." He smiles, sickeningly sweet at Spock, before continuing. "You are mine, Nyota." His lips close over her earlobe, sucking it gently.

"Think again," she snarls, and, managing to break one arm free, reaches up and back to slash the pin she held in her hand across his face.

Just a pound of pressure will cut flesh, and she knows she applied more than that. She is awarded with Sybok's quick intake of breath and she knows she hurt him. She can't see his face, doesn't know if she actually cut skin, but the audience gasps again, murmurs excitedly amongst themselves. She has done something, and she is gratified.

He bends his head to the crook of her neck, licking it before he bites it, the pain sharp and stabbing, enough to make her scream in both fury and hurt. She struggles against her bound hands, wanting desperately to fight back. She wants to punch him, wants to kick him, but he has already released her and the Vulcan guard is tugging at her to sit down.

Spock's face does not hide the fury he feels and for a second she is scared, worried of what he will do. Then she sees the rage as his advantage, his ability to win in this fight. It thrills her as much as it scares her, the thought of how territorial Spock truly was, beneath his cool, logical, cultured exterior.

She can see now that she did cut Sybok's skin, there are droplets of emerald blood on his face. Yet he is as smug as ever, waving to the crowd, chatting to the Vulcan girls as they apply the ceremonial oil to his torso. Nyota notes that they do the same for Spock.

"It is to give them strength," the woman besides her notes. "It is made from the oil of a flower, given by the gods to only the best warriors."

They are then presented with wide ceremonial belts, with the symbols of their families on the buckle. Spock wears the symbol of the house of T'Pau; Sybok's symbol she doesn't recognize—Nyota infers it is the symbol of his mother's family.

A Vulcan teenager then presents them with a large box, which he opens to reveal an assortment of weapons. Sybok chooses a lirpa, a weapon similar to the Terran lochaber axe, Spock chooses the same.

A gong sounds. The fight begins.

* * *

They circle each other, both intent on the objective of winning. No words pass between them, a surprising fact given Sybok's love of taunting Spock.

Sybok advances on Spock, taking the offensive stance. His style is just like his personality: showy, flamboyant, dramatic. He twirls the lirpa as if it is a baton before spinning and swiping the curved blade across Spock's middle. A quick move, almost balletic in its speed, causes Spock to almost lose his balance. He throws his body backward to avoid the blow, exhibiting how unexpected it was. His surprise is momentary; he takes advantage of his off-center position to roll to the ground, coming behind his brother and stabbing down with the blunt end of the weapon. The blow, had it fallen fully, would have shattered Sybok's shoulder, but his Vulcan reflexes serve him well enough to flinch partially out of the way. A forest green bruise starts to form, a physical reminder for him to never again underestimate his brother. Sybok slips into a warrior's crouch, all signs of showmanship, finesse, gone. The two men circle for a few moments, each watching the other closely for any sign of weakness, any opening to use an attack. Sybok attacks again, swinging the curved end of the lirpa up high and to the right before he reveals his move as a feint, changing direction at the last moment. He spins his body around and down to slash Spock's leg, partially hitting his target. Spock does not growl, nor howl, not any indication that he has even felt the blade. The physical evidence is there, the emerald blood seeping through the thin, light material of his pants. Spock stops Sybok's blade on its return swing with the pole of his own weapon, and kicks out with his other foot, catching Sybok high in the ribs and sending him stumbling, allowing Spock enough time to reverse his weapon, nicking Sybok's shoulder. Sybok growls, blood spurting out to cover the bruise Spock gave him earlier. He reverses his own weapon, catching Spock in the stomach with the blunted end. They spin, the long curved ends of the weapons flashing in the sunlight as they clash against each other like medieval swords.

The men are quick on their feet, almost as if they were _en pointe_, and Nyota is surprised by how dance-like all the feinting, parrying and spinning is, almost as if she is watching a ballet instead of a fight.

Sybok manages to cut Spock's upper arm and laughs triumphantly. The sound makes Spock roar, lashing out at Sybok with a fury Nyota has never seen, not even when he almost killed Kirk. Spock aims for his neck, aiming to kill, and Sybok finds himself suddenly on the defensive of an onslaught that threatens to overcome even his considerable skill. He is driven back against the far side of the courtyard, each blow of Spock's weapon coming closer and closer to the target until he slips on the loose rocks at the edge of the courtyard and falls to his knees. The blow would have been fatal, burying itself in his head, but instead buries itself in a tree.

Sybok scrambles to his feet, running to the far side of the half-circule before turning and throwing his lirpa like a broadsword, trying to impale Spock. His aim, however, is poor, and the blade hits a stone pillar and clatters to the ground. Spock flinches at the sound and abandons his weapon, turning and running at Sybok with a primal growl. The two men meet with a sound of thudding flesh and immediately fall to the found, wrestling each other desperately, fighting for superiority. After a few minutes of struggle, Spock comes up on top and, holding Sybok's throat with one hand, begins to punch him brutally with the other. Sybok writhes and struggles, choking, but cannot break free. In desperation, he grabs some of the dirt lining the edge of the half-circle stage and throws it into Spock's eyes. Spock tosses his head to the side, letting go of Sybok, instinctively reaching for his eyes, rubbing them. Sybok uses the distraction to roll out from under Spock and is able to get to his feet. He is coughing, sputtering, his face streaming blood. Yet he has enough energy to deliver a kick to Spock's back that knocks him flat on his stomach.

"Guards!" Sybok calls, slightly out of breath. "Take Spock and his human whore to their cell, where they can rot."


	21. Chapter 21

**This is it, what you all have been waiting for. The Pon Farr Chapter, as AtanaM and I have been calling it.  
Thank you to AtanaM, for all of her amazing help writing this. Thank you to mhgood, for cleaning it up, and for her high praise. Thank you to Arabic, for teaching me to pay attention to words. Thank you to everyone who PM'd or otherwise let me know that I better get my butt in gear and post another chapter. Thank you to Elizawriter—for listening.**

**

* * *

**

The guards are pleased with themselves—each have earned a case of chocolate covered Arabia coffee beans from Samir, an importer of chocolate and proprietor of Shorb Emir, the best chocolate cafe in all of A-75. The guards chat excitedly about their boon, paying no mind as they shove Spock and Nyota into their cell. They lock the door, walking away as Spock shouts after them.

"No! You cannot—you must—you have to—get her out of here! Now!"

He bangs on the door—punches it, kicks it as if that door is Sybok in their fight. He makes a few dents, but the door does not give. They remain imprisoned.

During his fight against the door, Nyota retreated to the other side of the cell, worried of what would happen if she stepped closer to Spock, if she got in his way.

"Spock," she calls softly. "What's wrong?"

He slumps down, his head in his hands, knuckles bruised a sickening shade of purplish green, shaking, breathing heavily. His cuts have stopped bleeding, but they still look angry and Nyota wishes she had a hypospray, wishes she could make his hurt go away.

"The fever has not been quelled by the fight, Nyota. I...do not have long," he says raggedly.

"Spock, Kirk will have heard of what's happened, or at the very least, he's got to be missing us by now. You know how he is, he'll get us out of here, we'll get on the _Enterprise_ and you'll be okay. You're not going to die today, ashal-veh. Not if I have anything to say about it."

He smiles weakly. She has never seen him smile, and she finds she likes it, wishes he would do it more often. She knows he cannot, that his Vulcan teachings have eliminated the need for anything but a small quirk of his lips to express his happiness, but it is beautiful, his smile and she wants to see it more.

"Ashayam," he moans gutterly, wrenching his head out of his hands, tilting it back, exposing his throat, his entire body taunt and shaking as the fever rakes him.

She admits, she loves it when he speaks Vulcan. She loves the way his tongue caresses the syllables, the gutturalness juxtaposed with the beauty of the words. It was the first thing she noticed about him—how attractive it was to hear the language spoken by him, to hear his gentle cadences murmur Vulcan poetry. Sometimes, and she would never admit it to Spock nor to anyone else, she would deliberately mispronounce a word during her Advanced Conversational Vulcan Independent Study with him, just so he would correct her, would repeat the word slowly and carefully and she would have the pleasure of watching his lips form the words of such a beautiful language.

He moans again and she's taken out of her reverie. She stares at him for a moment, wondering if she should tear her skirt and wipe him down with the water from the tap built into the wall. "Spock," she says in Vulcan. "What do you need?"

They are reminded of another time, not long ago, when she asked him the very same question. He was close, so very close, to losing control, but he didn't. Instead, he kissed her, told her he needed everyone to continue performing admirably, and walked off the turbolift. He wonders if she knows how close he was to losing control, she wonders if he knows how much she wanted him to.

"You," he answers, his voice low. He gives her that look again, that look that is undiluted lust, that look he gave her before kissing her against the wall. It sends a jolt of desire through her, and she wonders what would happen if the _Enterprise_ didn't make it to them in time, what if they had to take matters into their own hands...

"No!" he shouts. "I will not—I cannot do that!" He reaches behind him, punches the door. He cannot seem to catch his breath and he hangs his head in his hands again.

He is visibly shaking again, a sheet of sweat all over his body. She wonders how much time they have, how much longer Spock will still be in there before the Pon Farr takes him away from her.

She doesn't have a choice. Not anymore. She has to save him, even if it means saving him from himself.

"Spock," she says quietly. "Spock, look at me."

He raises his head. "Nyota," he moans. "Please, ashayam."

She isn't sure what he is begging for, for her to stop or continue. She refuses to let him die, refuses to let him descend into madness.

"Spock, we have to."

"No!" He yells at her. "Do you not understand? I could kill you! I will not do it, Nyota. I will not kill the woman I love."

She shakes her head. "You're not capable of killing me, Spock."

"You think you know me? Do you know how many men I have killed as an officer of Starfleet? How many I would for just looking at you?"

"Then make me yours," she says harshly. "Look at me—look at what I'm wearing. Sybok dressed me as one of his whores, he ran his hands all over me, Spock..." she pauses, pulling her hair back from her neck where it is falling out of it's coif and shows him the dark purple bruise where Sybok bit her. "He put his MARK on me, Spock. Prove him wrong. Prove them all wrong. Prove to him, prove to _everyone_ that I'm yours, Spock. Make me your bondmate, now, please, before it's too late."

He stares at her, taking in her appearance. She has crawled closer to him, exposing the skin of her legs. The lust returns to his eyes, with it a look of possession. He shakes his head again, closing his eyes.

"Nyota, please, do not make me--"

She lets out a groan of frustration, before crawling even closer to him. She grabs his hand, lifting it to her face. "I am already yours, adun. You cannot take what is freely given."

She can feel the link opening between them. He is scared, so scared of hurting her, intermingled with the desire, the lust the fever has accentuated.

"It is the only way," she whispers.

He nods, taking his hand from her face and placing two of his fingers onto hers.

"Are you sure, Nyota?" he murmurs.

She leans her forehead against his and nods.

"Yes," she whispers.

"My mind to your mind, my thoughts to your thoughts. Parted from me and never parted, never and always touching and touched," he whispers reverently.

She suddenly feels overwhelmed, drowning, taken over by the scope and breadth of all of his emotions hitting her at once. She feels the punches of the Vulcan students who taunted him as a child, hears the sound of his mother's laughter. She feels the shame he felt when he argued with his father, never feeling fully Vulcan enough for Sarek. She feels the dark, intense possession he feels whenever another man so much as looks at her, the subsequent shame he feels at such an illogical emotion. She feels as if she is drowning while being ripped apart, and it is too much. She is losing herself, does not know who Nyota is anymore. She can't breathe, can't think, feels too much and it hurts. God, does it hurt.

"Nyota! Listen to me!" His voice breaks through the tempest in her mind. "You must listen to me, ashayam. Concentrate on my breathing, Nyota. Listen to it, synchronize yours to mine."

She listens, her eyes closed, as he tries to make his breathing as deep and even as possible, a metronome for her to follow. She follows his example, able to match her breathing to his. She can hear his heart beat, finds that hers is soon intertwining in rhythm with his.

She opens her eyes, finds him staring at her, sees herself staring back at him. Her calmness has soothed him as well and she can tell through their newly formed bonding that he is taken away by her love for him, just as she is taken away by the intense emotions he feels. They stare at each other in wonder, the desire flowing through them, and she realizes all Terran notions of becoming one with another person having nothing on being bonded with a Vulcan. He is in her mind, a constant presence and she marvels that it feels like he has always been there, as if she has never been completely alone.

_I feel the same, Nyota._

_You can hear my thoughts?!_

Well, that would take some getting used to.

He chuckles inside her mind and she realizes she has never heard him laugh before. It delights her, she wants to hear it again.

_Yes, Nyota. I can hear your thoughts. You can hear mine, if you concentrate._

She closes her eyes and she realizes that yes, she can. It is odd, being in Spock's mind. Thoroughly...logical, yet passionate. Everything has its place, working in sync, in tandem, like a watch, yet with such..._emotion_ that she is momentarily confused how her logical, calm Vulcan have such warring states inside of him.

A memory enters her head, one that isn't hers, yet feels very familiar. It's Spock's, she realizes; he is providing an explanation.

_Emotions run deep within our species, though it is far less in evidence than it is in humans. Long ago, such emotions nearly destroyed us. That is why we decided to follow the teachings of Surak. The result is the calm, controlled and contented civilization you see around you._

She nods. _I understand now._

He takes her in his arms and as she settles herself on his lap, she can feel the lust he can barely keep in check. It reaches out towards her, enticing her. This new found closeness coupled with the lust she feels from Spock heightens her own arousal and she tilts her face upwards, seeking his kiss.

He kisses her openly, ardently, his tongue intertwining with his. She can sense that he wants Sybok's clothes off of her and she couldn't agree more. She leans back just enough with the intent to untie the halter-top, but he takes the initiative to rip the fabric at the seam, flinging it over her head. His hands slide up over her breasts and she feels her nipples tighten in response as she leans her head back in submission. He growls in approval, his lips moving to her neck, placing open-mouthed kisses there, before nipping at her collarbone.

She rolls her hips, feeling his arousal. She starts to unbutton his pants, knowing that he wants this just as much as she does. He moans against her neck, sending shivers down her spine.

"Mine," he growls in her ear, clutching her hips tighter to him.

"Prove it," she growls back, the fever heating her, making her crave him. She remembers all the times he came to her, arousing her to amazing heights, then leaving her. It makes her angry, frustrated, and she forgets he can feel all of this through the link.

"I am sorry, aduna. I was trying to save you," his lips move against her skin, leaving trails of wet fire as they travel back to her mouth, kissing her passionately.

She kisses him back, equally passionate. It's not enough, she needs more, he needs more. She breaks the kiss, untangles herself from his lap, and lays herself on the floor, raising to her elbows to look at him.

"Enough talk," she says. Before she can finish, he is on her, kissing her everywhere. She shoves his pants down over his hips impatiently as he shoves the skirt aside. He brushes his hands back up her body, sending goosebumps along her skin, not missing a single inch, learning her, worshiping her.

Her breath starts to thicken as she drags her nails down his chest, trying to bring blood, sensing that he needs it, needs her to mark him, to make him hers. He groans in approval, before biting her neck, hard.

_Mine._

His voice, gutteral and thick with desire even in her mind, is a mantra. It underlines how much he needs her, wants her, craves her with everything that he is. She is the center of his universe, the most necessary thing to him and it almost overwhelms her again, the force of what he feels for her, it turns the sharp pain of his bite into a heated kind of passion, and she almost wishes he'd mark her again.

She arches her neck, taking his earlobe between her teeth, worrying it, caressing it with her tongue before she bites down, hard, on it. He roars, his back bowing, the pleasure too much for either of them.

"Nyota," he pants. "I--"

She takes him in her hands, almost clumsy in her need to guide him where they both want him to be. He is in her, she surrounds him, he is on top of her, she is below him and she is drunk off the feeling. He moves, his hips jerking, and he is so far gone now he can't find a rhythm but it feels so damn good she doesn't care, doesn't care that she is on her back on some cold stone floor, that his elbow is caught in her hair and making her neck jerk with every thrust, that this isn't the refined lovemaking she expected to have with Spock. She wraps her legs around him, moaning, digging her heels into the small of his back, her fingers scrambling for purchase against sweat-soaked skin as his body slides hard against hers with every thrust. She groans, finding it harder to breathe as the friction and the heat and the fever take them both higher, deeper, and she wants to scream so badly but can't find the air, doesn't know if she's going to live through all of this sensation--

Someone screams. She is not sure if it's her, or him or perhaps both of them together in a single harmony, but the world contracts to the single point of consciousness and explodes outward, a burst of lights blinding her as she loses all coherent thought. He collapses, panting, thanking her through their link, murmuring words of Vulcan, of Standard, telling her Taluhk nash-veh k'dular, I cherish thee, and she wonders if this is the closest a Vulcan ever gets to babbling.

* * *

He cannot stop.

He knows he should. He needs to give her time to recover. Her body cannot keep up, it is spent. She is exhausted, bruised, sore and barely able to move any more. He tries to be gentle, tries to love her like she deserves, but the fever yells at him to take her, to possess her, regardless of her, regardless of everything.  
It laughs at him as he wonders how long it will take before it stops.

_But isn't this a lovely way to burn, Spock?_

He flips her over on her stomach and begins again.

* * *

She wakes up slowly, consciousness coming out and in like the tide, and when she finally does open her eyes, she doesn't remember falling asleep, wonders if she simply passed out.

She tries to move and realizes how much of a grave mistake it is. Her body mightily protests, every muscle aching, all of the bruises, scratches, aches, and pains she has making themselves known. She bites back a cry as she stretches her arms, noting the finger-shaped bruises on them. She can feel the burn of Spock's fingernails down her back, the soreness of her bruises from where he's bitten her. There is a burning between her legs that is such that she doesn't know if she'll ever walk again.

Despite all of this, she smiles. Her man is _good_. Even half mad, even when she was so worn out he had to move her like a rag doll and it hurt and she desperately wanted him to stop, somehow through everything there was still pleasure. Pon Farr was dangerous and took an unbelievable toll on both body and mind but still, it had its benefits.

She can feel his gaze on her. He has gone back to his corner, his pants back on, his knees pressed up against his chest, he looks like a wounded animal. He looks gaunt. He needs to shave, though she kind of likes the five o'clock shadow he's currently sporting.

"Hey," she croaks. "How are you feeling?"

He doesn't respond. She frowns. Is the fever still there? Did last night not work?

_The fever is gone, Nyota._

_Then what's wrong, Spock?_

She feels his fear, his shame. "I hurt you."

She takes a good look at him, sees the bite marks on his chest, his neck. She notices that he has more than a few bruises, himself.

"Looks like I hurt you too," she says out loud hoarsely, wishing that she had a glass of water.

He shakes his head. "I could have killed you, Nyota. Your body...I should have been able..."

"Spock," she says sharply. "It is illogical for you to torture yourself over an uncontrollable condition. Just have been illogical for me to let you die when I had the power to stop it," she gives a raspy chuckle, rather delighted at the logic of her argument. "Nam-tor ri thrap wilat nem-tor rim, beloved, and it looks like I gave as good as I got so just...stop it, OK? The next time this happens we'll be prepared. We'll...take precautions, I'll tie you up, I don't know. We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. But what I do know is that I chose this. I signed up to deal with this the day I fell in love with you."

He looks at her as if he cannot believe what he is hearing and for a second she thinks that she is going to have to explain it to him again. Then he slowly, hesitantly comes to her, wrapping her in his arms.

"Taluhk nash-veh k'dular, aduna."

She kisses him again, confident that it will stay at a kiss. He caresses the side of her face, cradling her to him.

"I love you too, Spock," she says against his lips.

He leans his forehead against his, and they marvel in the feeling of being together, of being two halves of the same whole.

He takes the ripped and tattered halter top and, wetting it with water from the tap on the wall, starts to wipe her clean.

They hear the door open and, thinking it's Sybok, Spock places Nyota behind his back, guarding her, shielding her.

Kirk pokes his head in. "Oh, good. This is the right cell. Hi, guys. Let's get out of here."


	22. Chapter 22

**I'm watching the Scream 2009 Awards as I'm writing this, and I can say with all reverence and honesty that I want to be that cool when I grow up. (Though I'm not digging the vamps...it's kind of overkill now...) Thank you to AtanaM for reading my dumb emails comparing Sylar, Sybok and Richard III, for betaing the stuffing out of this thing and for all the fic recs. Thank you to mhgood for being the grammar queen that she is and pointing out my really dumb mistakes. I can't thank either of you enough for making me the writer that I am.**

**And thank you, especially to recumbantgoat for knowing exactly which picture I was thinking of, and everyone else who posted on the Help! LJ Thread for the pretty ZQ pictures, and for all the laughs. You guys are a great lot, you really are. This is for all of you.**

**

* * *

**

He paces.

This cell is restricting—maybe ten feet by ten feet and he can't stand it, can't stand being in this tiny room knowing that Sybok is about to blow the universe to hell. He has no idea how to get out of here and the cell is sealed shut—he has no way to get out. He is meant to die here, Spock is sick, and Uhura is in a lot of trouble.

"Fuck!" he yells, kicking the door, wishing that he could at least make a dent, have evidence of physical damage.

There's nothing.

He has to think. He runs his hands through his hair, trying to come up with something. He is James Tiberius Kirk, king of the silver-tongue and nine lives, the boy who talked his way out of so many detentions that he can't remember them all, the teenager who hacked into the school computer system, changed that B in xenohistory to an A, and the principle never did figure out how he did it. He was the man who managed to talk his way out of his second time in jail when a bar fight got particularly brutal, who grabbed a Romulan's phaser while said Romulan was choking him and shot him in the gut.

He had to come up with _something_. He can't just rot in here.

He wonders about Spock and Uhura—where they are, if they've noticed he's nowhere to be found yet. Have they gotten back on the _Enterprise_? Would they even be able to find him here, in the bowels of hell?

* * *

Well, well, well.

Little brother fought better than he thought he would. Sybok is surprised—Vulcan culture mandated passivity, yet Spock is well adept at Suus Mahna. He takes into account Spock's pon farr and anger over the violation of his mate, yet that still does not explain Spock's skill.

He studies the bruise that has fully bloomed on the side of his body, a hideous emerald tattoo, a reminder that Spock was not as weak as he seemed. Spock's fight or flight response is heavily set towards fight and if the sting of his cheek is any indication, the kittenish Nyota had claws. He would kill her, but Spock, fevered as he is, would more than likely take care of that for him.

He wanted to kill someone today. This is _not_ how his day was planned out. He was supposed to kill Spock and then celebrate with Nyota. Now he has a bunch of scratches, which are going to _scar_, Spock is still alive, and Sybok very much doubts he will be having sex with Nyota tonight. If his own performance during the time is any indication, if she isn't dead, she's at best severely injured. She is, after all, a weak human woman. Besides, he will not take his brother's leftovers. He has his pride to consider.

"That kid got the better of you today," Shylock tells him from the doorway.

Sybok turns in his direction, a scowl on his face.

"I don't believe I asked for your opinion, Shylock."

Shylock walks into the room, his arms folded across the chest.

"While you left in a huff, I was busy gaging the reaction of the people. They're starting to doubt you, Sybok. They're wondering if the Federation is going to come and make this planet a colony."

"Ponfo mirran!"

"Now, now," Shylock drawls. "No need for language."

Sybok bares his teeth, ready to tell Shylock just where he can go.

"You can still save this, you know. So, the kid beat you and everyone saw it. It's not the deal you're making it out to be."

"_Spock_ did NOT beat me!" Sybok yells, advancing towards Shylock, his anger taking over, clouding as his vision.

Shylock takes a step back and sighs. He has been the brunt of Sybok's tantrums before. They're tedious, but thankfully short, granted he could distract the man long enough.

"You still have Kirk to play with," Shylock informs him. "He is the Captain of the _Enterprise_. He'd have access to the information you're looking for."

The rage in Sybok's face clears, replaced by one of contemplation. He strokes his chin, a slow smile creeping onto his bruised mouth.

"He would know, wouldn't he? He just might prove to be useful after all."

Shylock suppresses a sigh, instead thanking the gods that Sybok has the presence of mind to think beyond losing the fight to his brother and thus losing the human girl. There was a business to think of, a profit, a future. He could not, would not, let Sybok take that away from him.

"Well," Sybok says, his enthusiasm renewed, "it seems I will be paying a visit to the catacombs."

* * *

In a sense, the catacombs and the palace are not that much different, Sybok muses as he descends the stairs. Are the Terran concepts of Heaven and Hell really all that different? They are both the otherworld, the other realm, what-have-you. They are two sides of the same coin, he thinks, showing a mirror image of the same place.

The palace is the face he wants everyone to see. It is everything he every wanted, everything he promised his mother when they were cast out of Vulcan. It is a perpetual party, an exaggeration of himself and he prefers it that way. Everything in there is the finest thing money--and stealing--can get him. The palace is the sun, the light, the heavens.

The catacombs, he muses, are what he truly is. The hate and the rage he feels is executed on everyone he has managed to punish, but it is far enough underground that no one can hear the screams. Those who know the catacombs never forget. Those who remain in ignorance do so with smile on their faces, enjoying the party around them as the torture happens below their feet. The catacombs are dark and cold and damp; they are, in essence, the stuff of nightmares.

But he has his cake and he eats it too—he has everything he ever wanted and he still gets his vengeance. Neither is sacrificed for the other.

It is perfect.

He smiles as he strolls his way to Kirk's cell. He wasn't lying to Kirk when he told the Starfleet Captain he regretted that Kirk got in the way. Kirk was fun, not like his stuffy brother Spock. Kirk appreciated the female form, a good drink, and he knew how to party.

It is a pity he got in the way.

But now he has a use. He is, after all, a Starfleet Captain, with access to all sorts of intelligence which would be quite useful in his endeavors.

He finds the cell and enters in the code Shylock gave him.

Kirk turns towards the door, smirking as he studies Sybok's face.

"Nice cut."

Sybok strolls up to him. "You must really like this cell, Kirk, making comments like that."

"Maybe I love it here," Kirk says defiantly.

"I could kill you," Sybok growls.

Kirk spreads his arms out, inviting. "Do it. I dare ya, Sybok, because honestly? I don't think you have the guts."

Sybok throws a punch, taking pleasure in the sound of his fist hitting weak human facial bone.

"Fuck!" Kirk hisses, bending over. He recuperates quickly, for a human, standing back up to face Sybok.

"Didn't think you'd actually throw a punch."

Sybok shrugs. "You dared me."

Kirk starts to laugh, rubbing his chin. "What the hell are we, teenagers?"

"You issued a challenge, Kirk. I take that seriously."

Sybok tires of this game. He thinks about how he could be with Nyota right now, if it weren't for the fact that Spock refused to die, like he should.

Kirk shrugs. "Is there something you wanted, Sybok?"

"Give me the scans of the planets with decalithium and you may leave here."

Kirk snorts. "What, does it say stupid across my face?"

Sybok smiles. "It's a simple enough deal, Kirk. You give me the scans and the security codes for any and all Federation defense satellites and you get to leave this planet and go back to...what is it that Starfleet does again?" He waves a hand. "Never mind. I don't really care. The deal expires when I walk out this door, Kirk. Take it now, or forget about it."

Kirk smiles widely. "You know, Sybok, we have this expression on my planet." He raises a certain finger on both of his hands. "Fuck you. I'm not taking the deal."

Sybok laughs, first quietly, then progressively more loudly—a crescendo of malice. "Oh Kirk....Kirk, Kirk, Kirk. I thought you were the man who did the persuading, not _needed_ it." He shakes his head. "But today, evidently, you do. It's your lucky day—I'm just in the right mood to help you see reason."

* * *

He looks up at the ceiling, wondering if he will ever see the sky again.

He thinks back to when he first saw the _Enterprise_, how beautiful he thought she was, how for the very first time in his life he was filled with a sense of purpose, of belonging. Nothing mattered anymore—not that souped up hoverbike he spent months working on, not his step-father, not the multitude of women who reminded him, for a few hours, what it was like to feel. All that mattered was the sky and the stars and his place among them.

And he may never see that again.

He shakes himself mentally. He can't think like that, he's a _Kirk, _for the love of god. He's the poster-boy for getting out of messes.

He takes a deep breath. For the moment, Sybok is gone—be it to rest, eat, or simply just to clean himself up in order to start again, Kirk doesn't know nor at this point really care. He hurts so blasted much that he didn't realize that it was possible to feel this much pain.

He was surprised. Not that Sybok decided to torture him, after all, there was a reason why the bad guys were the bad guys, but rather his modus operandi. He expected Sybok to mess with his mind, to bring out every skeleton, every little secret he had using that weird mind-meld thing. Hell, even just some version of the mind-meld, some sort of psy-op jujitsu or whatever would have been more expected.

This was a lesson in pain—electrodes to pain centers of the brain in increasingly higher frequencies. Acupuncture to nerve endings that made his muscles feel like they were on fire. When all Sybok got out of him were several choice words regarding his mother's sexual preferences in all thirty-two Federation languages Jim Kirk was fluent in, he'd gone even more low tech than that, turning first to his fists and then, finally, stringing him up and scourging his back with an Andorian Sonic whip.

It was the whip that did it—breaking his silence that was occasionally broken by a few well-chosen taunts and unleashing a scream that tore through him as the sound waves cut into his flesh. It was as efficient as the old leather and bone flagellum of its BC era Terran forbearer, and its user demonstrated immense skill in it. It was obvious that Sybok had a great liking for the Andorian Sonic whip, enjoying the physical execution of the torture almost as much as he enjoyed hearing Kirk scream.

Kirk hates screaming. He knows it was a normal reaction to extreme stimuli, but...it just wasn't manly. And if there is one thing in this universe Kirk is sure of, it is his manhood.

Still, the screaming might have saved his life. When he had screamed himself so hoarse he started spitting blood, Sybok released him from the wall, literally letting the door hit Kirk in the ass on his way out.

Now he is lying on the cold stone floor, beaten up, bleeding, and down for the count.

No, not down for the count. Never that. If that grotesque psychopath of an alternate universe Romulan Empire, Nero, couldn't get him down, then he'd be damned if some punk-ass Vulcan would.

He is not going out like that.

He ignores the pain, the nasty wet feeling as movement causes the cuts on his back to bleed anew. He crawls, one-handed, to the wall, holding his right side tightly with the other, where he thinks something is either broken or fractured. Where the hell was Bones when he needed him?

He used to read adventure stories as a kid and he distinctly remembers a story about there being loose bricks, a tunnel, and a path to freedom.

So, he tries the walls. He runs his hands along the stones, feeling for something, anything. He is concentrating so hard that he doesn't hear the door open.

"What are you doing?"

He whirls around, blinking, peering to make sure the face matches the voice.

"T'ranah?!"

She steps out of the shadows, a headscarf partially obscuring her face. She is wearing a dress of deep scarlet and the fabric shines against the light of the torch flame.

"Are...are you alright?" Her eyes are full of concern and she moves to touch one of the bruises on his face.

He catches her hand gently before she does so. "Never mind me, what are you doing here?"

"I have come to save you, Captain Kirk," she says proudly. He can see she is holding a piece of paper in her other hand.

"T'ranah, I appreciate your effort, but how can you help me?"

She raises her eyebrow. "I'm sorry...I thought you were the one stuck in a cell and I was the one with a way out of here."

He grins at her, despite the pain it causes. "Okay, point taken. What've you got?"

She smiles again. "The plans from when Sybok built this place."

"And you're giving them to me?" There has to be some kind of catch, Kirk thinks. Maybe Sybok is using her to get to him. Maybe this is some kind of trick.

She nods. "Shiyau thol'es k'thorai ri k'ahm. You are a good man, Jim. I did not want you to die here."

They hear the guards talk in the corridor. "You won't be able to go tonight," she continues, looking over him with a critical eye. "Can you wait until the changing of the guards? Sybok is drunk and sleeping. I do not think he will be back here to play with you again until tomorrow."

Her obvious concern strikes him. He doesn't deserve her help, he has done little, if anything, for her, and here she is, risking her life for him. "I'll live," he says softly. "But how will I know when the guards change?" Hell, he didn't even know what day it was, much less what time it was.

T'ranah starts to speak, then jumps a bit, startled and looks back at the door—the sound of the guards is getting louder, they're coming closer.

"I will come back, Jim," she promises. She steps towards him, kisses his cheek, before walking swiftly towards the door.

"T'ranah," he says softly.

She turns back to look at him, a look on her face one that he can't quite decipher—a mixture of sadness and caring and something he isn't sure he knows.

"Thanks," he says.

She smiles and nods, before closing the cell.

He drops onto the cot, studying the maps. The catacombs are labyrinthine—there seems to be no real logic in their planning. He smiles grimly—if Spock could see these, he'd probably blow a gasket. He's having trouble making heads or tails of it himself, but he's finally able to find the entrance. He tucks the map away into his pocket. He wonders if she'll come back, if she'll be able to come back, if he'll be able to find his way out of this prison.

Eh, he thinks before he falls asleep, he'll wing it.

* * *

"Do humans always sleep this much?"

He's startled awake by the voice, the words that come to his mind not nearly vulgar enough for him. Shylock peers down at him, looking as if Kirk is a particularly nasty bug he has discovered under his shoe.

"What part of _screw you_ don't you Vulcans understand?"

Shylock chuckles softly. "Tough words from a man in your position. But then again, humans are known throughout the galaxy for their empty bravado. Tell me, would you feel that way if I told you that your friends are in the cell just a couple of doors down?"

Panic grips him, causing him to bolt up from the cot. "What?"

Shylock nods. "Sybok tried to fight Spock for the Lieutenant. When that didn't work, he put them into the catacombs, where they remain, until he schedules their execution. Your Vulcan officer has Pon Farr...it's common occurrence here on the colony. Tell me, do you think the human woman is strong enough to survive?"

Kirk fights the urge to punch Shylock. He doubts very seriously it would pack much force in the condition he's in, and the memory of the last time a Vulcan hit him is still a little too fresh for his liking.

"Is this some kind of trick? Are you just telling me this because you're Sybok's puppet—you're hoping I'll give you the planet scans so you guys can continue making your weapons?"

Shylock stares at him appraisingly. "That would be a good tactic, wouldn't it? But it's not true. The colony is changing, Kirk. It knows the balance of power can be shifted. It saw, it heard all about the fight between Sybok and his brother, and suddenly Sybok is not the god he thinks he is. The people will revolt the second they have the notion to. I have a business to maintain, Kirk, and I am not going to let Sybok and his temper tantrum ruin that."

"And where do I come in during all of this?"

"Simple enough. You will have to write about your stay here, on the planet. If you could not mention my presence here, it will be like I never existed. I will let you leave, with your friends, right now, if you promise to let me slip through the cracks."

Kirk feels slightly sick. He knows that Shylock will continue to be a weapons dealer and there is the possibility that another Vulcan will happen, because he let Shylock get away. But if he doesn't, then Spock and Uhura die here. He dies here.

They told him in the Academy that the needs of the many outweigh of the needs of the few, but what about lives? Spock and Uhura are his friends...he cannot sit by, knowing that he is fating them to certain death.

Shylock shakes his head. "You are too good, James Kirk. Right now you are wondering if you can sacrifice the universe for your friends. But have you ever stopped to consider that those thousands of people you are trying to save could very well be Klingon? Romulan? What if you save a serial killer, Kirk? Is his life worth more than the lives of your friends? Worth more than your life? Have you stopped to consider that if you live, then you would have the chance to stop me later on?"

Kirk looks up at the Vulcan, who looks back at him impassively. He is making a deal with the devil, he knows this, but he has no other choice.

"Fine."

Shylock smiles widely. "Good man," he replies, before walking to the door, leaving it open.

Kirk smirks. "Yeah, I'm glad someone thinks so."

Shylock tosses a med kit on the cot next to Kirk, then turns, heading out the door."It's got a derm kit and a hypo spray with enough painkiller to get you moving. You're welcome," his disembodied voice calls back. "Your friends are in the cell two corridors over to the right. Fifth one down."

* * *

He doesn't waste any time. The painkillers act quickly and soon the pain is dulled enough for him to move with relative ease. His adrenaline is surging through his system now, giving him the energy he didn't realize he had. He walks to the open door and looks out, both up and down the corridor. Not seeing any guards, he hurries two corridors over and five cells down.

Shylock has already keyed in the code; all he has to do is press the enter key. He is amazed how simple this is, how easy once he made a deal. He doesn't want to think about what it really means now. The true potential of what he has done. He needs to make sure his friends are okay.

The door opens and he finds Spock standing, shirtless, with Nyota behind him. He presumes she's okay—he can only tell that she's behind him, and nothing else about her.

"Oh good. This is the right cell. Hi guys. Let's get out of here."


	23. Chapter 23

**Sometimes I forget that the world goes on and I'm still in the library. My apologies for being missing from the ST:XI fanfiction world for so long—almost a month!--and hopefully this chapter will make up for that. I want to thank my betas for sticking with me even when I disappear for a while, Elizawriter for saying hello every once in a while, Thanksgiving break for giving the me chance to sit down and write, O-Hum for the excellent writing music, and D&D, which gave me this chapter's structure in the first place.**

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* * *

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He breathes. They're here, alive, and for at least the moment, things are going his way. He beckons at them impatiently. Don't they understand that they don't have much time? That Sybok's going to figure things out sooner or later?

Spock looks over his shoulder to Nyota, then looks back at Kirk, considering.

"Captain, I require your shirt."

"My shirt?"

"Did I stutter, Captain?"

Kirk raises his eyebrows at his First Officer, whom he is pretty sure just sassed him.

"Why?"

Nyota swears she hears Spock sigh. "Because I will not have my bondmate go out of this cell shirtless."

Kirk is shocked. "Whoa, did you just say shirtless? Uhura's shirtless? Seriously?"

"Captain," his face, impassive as ever, does not accentuate the slight impatience in Spock's voice; the tone that he uses suggests that he is talking to a particularly slow child, rather than a Starfleet Captain, "your shirt, if I may?"

Kirk instinctively tries to look over Spock's shoulder, but to no avail. Spock gives him a look and Kirk realizes it's very much in his best interest not to question what the hell a bondmate is and just go with it. He tugs off his shirt, handing it to Spock before turning his back.

"Never thought I'd get you wearing my clothes, Uhura."

He smirks. He is high right now, high as a kite thanks to the painkillers, and he can't help himself. He wouldn't blame Spock for wringing his damn neck, not that he'd feel it with all the medication flowing freely in his system, but after everything, he just wants things to be back to normal. He wants to tease Uhura and he wants to try Spock's patience and he wants to get back to the stars, where he, and they, belong.

"Savor the moment, Kirk. It's the last one you're going to get," Uhura tells him.

He can hear the smile in her voice and he knows she's teasing right back. He's gratified—she understands. Spock gives him a look that would kill him if Spock's psi-abilities extended to his ocular nerves, but thankfully for Kirk, they don't.

* * *

The fever is gone. He is no longer in hell but traveling through purgatory. Remnants of the fire remain, bursts of extreme jealousy, the intense need to protect Nyota at all costs.

He feels sick, ashamed of himself for _feeling_ these things, but he cannot stop it. His control is so weak right now, it will take so many hours of meditation just for him to maintain normalcy.

_Hush, ashal-veh,_ she whispers in his mind, _I am yours and he knows it,_ _he jests, that's all. Nothing more. __He is trying to make himself laugh in order to prevent the sadness from overtaking him._

He is once again overwhelmed by her, her ability to empathize and understand. She does not condemn Kirk for making these jokes, instead she attempts to understand his motivations. She did not shun him for his pon farr, instead she made him well.

He wishes Kirk would go away, he is sure the Captain would understand. He wants to show Nyota how much he appreciates her.

He hears her mental laugh. _Later, Spock. Later._

Nyota steps away from Spock and Kirk can see her fully. She looks like a fright, but he imagines that he's not all that better. Her hair is tangled, her eyes have dark circles under her eyes. She moves stiffly, not with her usual grace. He wonders if Spock has done something to her, perhaps in his fever. There's just something...off, and he can't put his finger on it.

It's not intentionally. It would never be intentionally. Spock loves her too much. He never thought a Vulcan, even a half-Vulcan, could love anything, but he knows the guy was not right for a little while. Uhura said so.

He thinks about asking, about calling Spock over and telling Uhura to continue walking, but he decides against that course of action. There will be time for that later, once they're out of here.

"Come on, guys, let's go. We don't have much time."

Uhura and Spock nod, and they run, not walk, out of the catacombs.

Uhura tries her best and his respect increases for her ten-fold for running even when it's obvious that she is in a tremendous amount of pain. He can still feel the effects of the painkillers—the injuries subsiding their screaming agony to a dull roar and he can't imagine what it would be like to actually experience his pain full force. Every once in a while he glances at the map that T'ranah gave him, just to make sure that he's is going in the right direction. The catacombs are designed to make one think that he is constantly going in the wrong direction.

They ascend the stairs to the light, surprised to find that there aren't any guards around. He's impressed—Shylock has made this easier that he expected.

"We need to contact the _Enterprise_, Captain," Spock tells him.

"Really, Spock? I never would have guessed," Kirk says sarcastically.

He looks up and down the hallway. "We need to find the communicators we brought with us. I doubt they're still in the rooms we were in, but it'll be worth looking—maybe Sybok tripped up and left them there. Chances are, we'll have to go to his rooms. They're probably there."

Uhura looks at him. "Why in his room and not in the library? Or in any of the others in the-god forsaken palace?"

"He will not want anyone else to have them," Spock said quietly.

Kirk watches as Uhura glances at him and slips her hand in his, squeezing it. He looks over at her and Kirk swears that he sees the half-Vulcan smile.

"Okay," Kirk says. "We check the rooms first, then Sybok's."

* * *

The gaudiness of the hallways suddenly seems sinister, even sickening now. At first it was kitsch, like the tourist casinos in the United States of North America, a farce of wealth and status.

It makes her sick.

She longs for the clean white walls of the _Enterprise_, longs for her communications station. She longs for a long soak in a tub to make all of her aches go away. She's tired of this planet with its scorching sun and its sand, its psychopathic Vulcans and chaos.

She's _tired_.

She hurts, too, and while she does not, could not, regret saving Spock's life, she is going to be sore for quite a while and she wishes that they didn't have to run up those stairs.

She feels shame wash over her and she realizes it's from Spock and she regrets ranting to herself. She forgets that he's rattling up in there now, can hear every thought.

_Please, Spock, don't. I didn't mean it like that. I just need a couple of days of recoup, that's all._

_Because of me._

She shakes her head. _No, because of your Pon Farr. You couldn't help it._

She knows he disagrees with her but thankfully he lets it go for now, silent in her head.

They check her room first, finding the room completely trashed and searched through. Anger surges through her and it's a intertwining of hers and his.

_He came to the place where you slept...he touched your things..._Spock growls in her mind.

Nyota shrugs her shoulders. _No offense, adun, but your brother already dressed me up as one of his... "girls"..._**bit **_me and blatantly told you that he'd take me after killing you. This is really just the sprinkles on your brother's creepy sundae._

Spock growls again, this time audibly. _You are mine, Nyota. I will make sure he knows this._

She moves her ponytail to one side of her neck, showing him the bite marks he placed on the other side. . _I believe you have already proven that, Spock._

His gazes rakes appreciatively over the marks he left on her skin. _Ah, but my brother seems very slow, for a Vulcan. I believe I need to tell him in no uncertain terms our status as bondmates._

Nyota smiles. _Come on, Spock, we have work to do._

He nods. _You are right._

It's like trying to find a christmas light among the stars—ransacking an already ransacked room, trying to find a communicator so they can get out of this place.

Kirk pokes his head in.

"Any luck, guys?"

Nyota shakes her head. "None whatsoever. You?"

"Nope. Not that I'm surprised. Sybok's crazy, but he sure as hell isn't stupid."

Nyota shivers as she remembers that bastard _touching_ her and she hears Spock growl. She didn't realize she projected that image over to Spock, but he saw it, felt it all the same.

_Sorry, ashayam._

_You will not blame yourself for what happened, Nyota. I will not allow it._

She smiles, happy that he understands, that he doesn't think that somehow she asked for it, or that she tempted Sybok into trying to seduce her.

Lesser men might.

Kirk clears his throat. "Well, while you guys were busy making cow eyes at each other, I was searching both mine and Spock's room and I've got nothing. We're going to have to go to Sybok's room."

Spock frowns. "Nyota, what are 'cow eyes?'"

She laughs. "Kirk, you can explain it to him. When we're back on the ship. Right now, we've got to come up with a plan, because do we even know where Sybok's room is?"

Kirk shakes his head. "Though I was thinking, we're bound to run into a servant on our way there—Spock, can't you use your Vulcan mind-mojo and find out where his room is?"

Spock considers it. "Mind-melds for the purpose of gathering information are generally not performed non-consensually, Captain."

"Surely you would be willing to make an exception in this case, Spock?" Kirk asked him. "You've done it before, on the Narada."

"It would be considered necessary for our survival," Spock murmurs.

Kirk slaps him on the shoulder. "Now you're getting the idea. Now let's find ourselves a servant."

* * *

Jesus, he can't believe that he actually had to _convince_ Spock to do that mind-meld thing. These are their bloody lives and Spock's worried about ethics?

He shakes his head, marveling at the weirdness of his circumstance. Twenty-four hours ago he was being tortured and he had no idea if he was going to live or die, and now he's arguing with his First Officer about the morality of the usage of psi-abilities.

He's going to need a very strong drink—something Scotty's got hidden in Engineering.

There's something about leaving the room and walking around the corridors, leaving themselves open for attack, practically, that makes him nervous. He doesn't like it, but there's no other way for them to get back on the _Enterprise_. They are going to need to confront Sybok.

The first servant they encounter is a girl—she can't be older than seventeen, and for this Kirk's thankful. The painkillers are starting to wear off and he's in no state to fight a Vulcan and he doubts Spock is either. He knows Nyota's not. He saw some bruises on her wrists and what looked like bite marks on her clavicles. He's _really_ going to have to talk Spock about it; just to make sure she's alright, that there's nothing he needs to know.

The girl's eyes widen, and she starts to turn to tell someone about them. Spock walks calmly up to her before she can make a full turn and puts his hand on her face. She gasps and struggles a little bit, sputtering in Vulcan, but his other hand clasps her shoulder, holding her in place. He then releases her and she walks off in a daze, her feet slightly unsteady.

"We will turn left, then a right and then we will find Sybok's bedroom. He is currently not there, but he will be returning soon...with company."

He continues, "She does not remember seeing us. She will continue with her duties, as if nothing has happened."

Kirk nods. "Good. Let's go."

* * *

He changed her memory. He went into that girl's mind, got the information that he sought, and changed her memory to suit his purpose. The girl didn't look right, after he lifted his hands from her face and spoke to the Captain as he watched the girl walk away so unsteadily. He didn't seem to care, didn't seem to notice that he just discarded her, like some expendable object, a means to an end. She was someone's daughter, someone's sister. Did he not care?

It is for them, for them to get out of here. He knows this, knows that he did this and with very good reason to. His ability is not something he takes lightly and he only uses it when he absolutely must.

But it bothers him, all the same.

* * *

Sybok's bedroom is like a Turkish harem mixed with a French boudoir; there is a fainting couch in one corner, a huge mattress in the center of the floor, surrounded by a bunch of pillows. There is a desk as well, with drawers. There is, not surprisingly, a mirror on the ceiling. Everything is red, or purple, or jewel toned. It hurts the eyes.

Spock goes immediately to the desk, trying to open the drawers.

"They are locked, Captain," he says.

"Like that's a big surprise. Can't you break into them or something, Spock?"

"I would prefer that you didn't, Spock," Sybok says from the doorway.


	24. Chapter 24

**I hate snow when I spend 3.5 hours shoveling my driveway and then having my car get stuck, but I love snow when it gives me the chance to write fan fiction. I have the best betas in the world, AtanaM for making Sybok more devious and delicious and mhgood for making sure my grammar is completely correct. **

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* * *

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He lurks outside the room like a predator, delighted by the sight and sounds that greet him. He had been so disappointed when his weekly diversion with T'Anya had not gone as he planned. She was usually so enthusiastic, yet tonight she had just lain there, not even making her usual sweet sounds, nor writhing once. He had come back to his room, resigned to taking matters into his own hands--after all, he still had a lot to do: making contact with his trade partners and arranging for the death of his brother, Nyota, and Kirk by some petty criminal, or an unfortunate, untimely accident, because _something _had to go right today. But _then_...

Spock, Nyota, and Kirk were in his room, looking for something, probably the communicators. Spock is in front of his desk, tugging at the drawers. If he were a _real _Vulcan, Sybok thinks, sidling up to the door, he would not have had any trouble opening the drawers. But once again his half-humanity proves to be a defect rather than an advantage. Nyota is next to him, and the way they are connected, in a way that cannot be explained, tells him that they are bond mates now, in mind and spirit. It is a tangible link; he would be able to feel it, surely, if he reached out his hand, a strong and solid chain connecting them. He will have to find some way to use that to his advantage. He notices that she is wearing the Captain's shirt and the skirt he had one of his women dress her in. They both reek of sex and sweat and bodies--it is enough to make him gag--and he laughs, perversely proud of his little brother. He hadn't realized that Spock had it in him to relieve himself of his Pon Farr the natural way and leave Nyota still alive, if a little bit worse for the wear. It is to be expected; Pon Farr is not for the weak. For a moment, he is impressed. Little brother, for once in his life, did the right thing, and the human whore is stronger than he gave her credit for. It is not often, he would go so far as to call it rare, that he underestimates his enemies. He isn't sure if he's disconcerted, or if he is amused.

Kirk is separate from them, demanding that Spock break open the drawers. Now now, that's no way for a Starfleet Captain to act now, is it? He is impressed by the Captain as well, he thought that he would have died by now, unable to take the pain and misery from his torture.

These people are strong. It will be a shame to kill them.

But, kill them he must. After all, his city is crumbling around him, and it is their fault. There are whispers already that he is weak, that even a half-human can defeat him. Everything he has built, everything he is will soon be gone if he is not careful. He has plans, plans that are far too important than the lives of the three before him. These plans will change the universe. Anger surges through him and he wants to break something. He thinks he will start with Nyota. She will be weak, tired, unable to struggle. It will take but a moment to kill her. Spock will fight. The word, Sybok thinks, is berserker, out of his mind with grief over the death of his bondmate and the breaking of their link. Such fighting would be stimulating, but he, Sybok, would ultimately win. Spock would be too much out of his mind, too much consumed by the insanity to truly fight.

Tragic, but little brother seems like the romantic type.

Kirk, then, would be the longest kill. He is stubborn and strong-willed, almost obsessive in his unwillingness to face reality. The outcome is already written, yet Kirk will still fight it, still fight him, despite the logic of succumbing to the inevitability. Sybok imagines he will be able to enjoy long hours of testing Kirk's limits before he becomes bored.

He makes his presence known to them and they wear matching panicked looks. He laughs in delight. Terror is always such a delicious element to have when killing someone.

Spock covers Nyota, not allowing Sybok to truly get a good look at her. His body language screams _she is mine, get away,_ but Spock's possessiveness makes him want to come closer, to smell her. He believes her scent has changed, that there is a difference now that her mind and Spock's are one.

"Well, well, well, my little brother managed to survive Pon Farr. It wasn't so bad, now, was it? I bet you even enjoyed it. You liked it, didn't you? You liked taking her, _owning _her."

He walks closer to them. Nyota is scared, he can feel it. The sharpness of adrenaline cuts through the musk of her recent arousal. She is very well aware that he can kill her, aware that she is weak and hurt, and, to her credit, she is trying very hard to not concentrate on that, to not let it show. But she needs to receive medical attention and soon.

Her death will not take him long at all.

Spock concentrates on a sole thought, the thought of protecting his mate. It consumes him; he cannot think of anything else.

"Did her screams register, when you were taking her? Did they string together like an aria, spurring you on to continue? Were her tears and sweat and blood like ambrosia? Did it matter at all to you, little brother, that she is a fragile little human? Did you realize how breakable she was when you were doing such things to such...soft flesh and delicate skin? Look, Spock, even now, she wilts like a flower in the afternoon sun. Tell me, when she pleaded, begged for you to stop, did you even try? Or was the fever so far gone you didn't care? Where was your precious logic, Spock...when you were killing her?

Spock's body tenses, the muscles in his torso and arms standing out in taunt relief as he struggles to retain his composure. He growls, low in his throat. "Where are the communicators?"

Sybok blinks, then cups a hand to one pointed ear. "What? Oh, am I supposed to actually tell you that?" He laughs again. "Oh, Spock, that was cute. You were being threatening just then, weren't you? Oh, that's precious!"

He falls into the suus mahna stance like a dancer about to begin a ballet suite. He flicks his wrist towards his brother, beckoning him to follow. "Come now, little brother. We've done this before, surely you remember."

Spock moves swiftly, his fists moving towards Sybok's head.

"TELL ME WHERE THEY ARE!" Spock roars.

Sybok laughs between blows. "Temper, temper, son of Surak. Now where is your control? The S'chn T'gai clan are known for their mastery of Kloinar, and look at you! Are you as much of a failure to them as you are to your bondmate?" He weaves to the side, delivering a punch to Spock's midsection and winding him.

Spock stumbles back, clutching his abdomen, gasping for breath. Sybok spins around, grabs him, one hand sliding around his windpipe, the other arm coming around to bend upward across his clenched fist, putting Spock in a headlock and effectively choking him from behind. "I had originally planned to kill your bondmate, Spock." Sybok's lips caress Spock's ear as he struggles to maintain his hold on the other Vulcan. "I planned to make you watch as I took everything away from you, before bestowing upon you death. But, being the meddlesome half-breed you are, you're messing up my plan." He shifts slightly to the right, throwing Spock off-balance,and allowing him to tighten his hold on Spock's throat. "I need some fun after all the strife you caused, and you have been kind enough to get the lovely lieutenant all warmed up and supple; it would be such a shame to waste her. Let her see what a pure Vulcan is capable of, let her die knowing true ecstasy. What do you think, Spock, would you like to watch?"

Spock struggles against his brother, fighting desperately to break away from him. Sybok isn't surprised when his brother isn't able to break free; he is well rested and his grip too strong. But, this is becoming insipid. He has other things to attend to now and it would not do to delay the inevitable.

The life force is leaving Spock the harder Sybok chokes him. It's gratifying, to feel him fading, to know that his brother is conscious of the fact that he is dying, that Sybok is the cause of that death, that Sybok will take Nyota, that he can't do a thing about it.

Sybok savors it, finding it to be a better aphrodisiac than the sukulata. He inhales deeply, hearing the desperate gasps of breath that are becoming fainter and fainter.

Then, his world goes black.

* * *

She feels him, feels him leaving her. The presence in her mind, the calming force that she adores above everything else in this universe is leaving her and she will do anything to stop it.

_No...Nyota...Do not..._

She ignores him. Calmly, she strides behind Sybok, her fear dissipating the closer she comes to him. She roundhouse kicks him, thankful for the years of ballet lessons followed by the Academy's combat training. It's a hard, forceful kick that delivers a satisfying crack to his skull. It was a risk, a huge one at that, but Vulcan and Terran biology prove similar enough that as Sybok staggers and drops Spock, who gasps and chokes loudly as he falls to the ground. Nyota feels his presence in her mind become strong again. Sybok crumples to the ground, unconscious from what Nyota assumes is a concussion, or worse.

She isn't satisfied, she wants to see him dead.

Images bombard her, images of him touching her, defiling her, humiliating her. She punches him, kicks him, heedless in her rage of the further injury she is causing herself. She watches the emerald blood leak from his wounds, his face becoming almost unrecognizable under the pounding of her feet. She kicks his groin and she's sorry that he's unconscious and she can't hear the yell of pain. She hopes she's causing internal bleeding, hopes she's breaking something, anything in that miserable scumbag. She hopes he's breaking something for what he did to her, to Spock, to Kirk. She knows she should stop, part of her wants to stop before she goes too far; she is killing him, and she knows this on some level, but that part of her is overshadowed by sheer rage, a synthesis of hers and Spock's, and the combined force of it burns her and she can't stop, she just cannot _stop_.

She feels someone grabbing her; it isn't Spock--whomever it is isn't as warm as Spock is--and she realizes it's Kirk. He's murmuring to her that that's enough now, that he's down for the count and can't hurt them anymore. If she doesn't stop she'll kill him, and she's not a murderer. She doesn't want a man's death on her conscience. Believe him, he knows.

"This isn't you, Nyota," he keeps murmuring to her. "He's not worth what his death will do to you." He pulls her away, telling her to focus, telling her to help Spock find the communicators.

She walks numbly over to Spock; suddenly the wall that she built to get herself through this ordeal is starting to crumble. Tears start to burn her eyes and her throat closes up. The adrenaline is fading fast and the pain is coming back in sharp stabs in every part of her body. She feels ligaments that were just bruised are now overextended or torn. She is tired, exhausted, filthy, and weak from this ordeal, and she wants it to stop, she just wants it to _stop..._

She sees Spock's head come up sharply in response to her shift in emotion and she tells herself sternly to pull it together, there is no time for crying right now, that there are still many miles to go before they can even think about sleep.

Kirk has wandered back over to where Sybok is ruining a beautiful and most likely expensive rug with his blood. He has his hand across his midsection and Nyota wonders just how badly he was hurt before he took those painkillers. They must be starting to wear off by now. Kirk stares at Sybok's prone form for a minute, a look on his face that Nyota can't decipher, isn't sure if she wants to be able to decipher.

"Thought you had me didn't you, you miserable sack of shit. I took far worse beatings when I was 12 years old than the one you gave me. I won't let her do it but I have no problem killing the man who imprisoned my friends and tortured me," she hears Kirk hiss, followed by a kick to Sybok's head that made even her wince.

Spock has managed to break into the drawers and is rummaging through them as Nyota walks over to him.

_Thank you, ashal-veh. You saved my life._

_He was trying to kill you, Spock. It was the...logical response._

She hears his laughter in her head--his emotionality due to the Pon Farr has not been completely eradicated--and she smiles, so grateful to hear such a magical sound, particularly when she thought, for a brief second, that she would never hear it again.

He opens the last drawer and finds a communicator; Sybok must have hidden them in separate places. It doesn't matter, not now. Kirk grabs it from Spock, saying a quick prayer to as many deities that may be listening that Sybok hasn't disabled it in some way. He hears the sounds of yelling in the distance; chaos has broken out and they need to leave now, before they are discovered.

"Kirk to _Enterprise_."

"Captain?! Sulu here. It's good to hear you, sir, we were beginning to worry."

"Sulu, as Captain of the _Enterprise_, I order you to beam us off of this god-forsaken planet immediately."

"Yes, Captain, but, is everything okay, sir? Dr. McCoy said you were supposed to check in a few hours ago and when you didn't..."

"Sulu?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Off...planet...NOW!"

"You got it, Captain. I've sent the order to Scotty."

"Scotty here, Captain. We have a read on you and we'll have you beamed up in but a minute."

Kirk lets out a sigh of relief. "I don't mean to push, but time is of the essence here, Mr. Scott."

"So I've gathered by your tone, Captain. Energize."

They feel the familiar tingling sensation of beaming transportation, and the rich jewel tones of Sybok's bedroom soon give way to the crisp white of the _Enterprise_.

* * *

Son of a cock-sucking whore!

Everything hurts, absolutely everything. They are gone. Spock, his human whore, and Kirk are gone, have disappeared into the air, and he is left, blood pooling on his very expensive Andorian carpet, the chants of rioters meeting his ears. He struggles to stand, and his body screams at him. Gods, what did they do to him? How did this happen?

He looks out of the window at the city he struggled so hard to build. It's beautiful, his city, even as the rioters rape it. There are bright lights of fires, the tendrils of smoke rising above the skyline.

It will come back.

They will burn her, they will even attempt to destroy her, but they will not be able to; just like those meddlesome three were not able to destroy him. He will rise, like a phoenix from the ashes, just like his city.


	25. Chapter 25

**Now that the holiday season is over with, I can write to my heart's content. AtanaM gets my absolute gratitude for being so patient, betaing things so quickly and for fixing my mistakes. Mhgood is so good that words cannot adequately her awesomeness--as many thanks as there are droplets of water in the ocean for your useful trivia and advice. **

"My, but you three look like a fright. I'm guessing we didn't exactly make friends with the locals now, did we?" Scotty says. He means it as a joke, but he can't help but widen his eyes as he notices that Uhura is wearing the Captain's shirt, and some frayed, bloodied scrap of a skirt. She barefoot and if he didn't know any better, she's banged up quite a bit. Her face looks like she's in nine kinds of pain, and—are those bite marks?! When she moves, he sees the bite marks all over her arms and legs and he wonders exactly what happened on that planet.

The Captain, on the account of Uhura wearing his shirt, is bare-chested and is bloodied and bruised. Spock is also without a shirt—is there something about this planet and shirts?--and his hair is disheveled for the very first time Scotty has ever seen. He has faint green circles under his eyes and Uhura is openly holding his hand. He knows there is something between the two; he was there, after all, when Uhura walked in and kissed Spock for all the world to see on the transporter deck, but since that day he has seen nary a holding of hands. He thought it was weird, but Starfleet is weird. Maybe it is against the rules.

They stagger off the deck and thank him for getting them off the planet so quickly. Kirk tells Sulu via intership subcom to get them the hell out of orbit and back to exploring the infinite abyss. He then turns to Spock and Uhura and tells them to take a couple of days, he's sure they'll need the rest. They nod, thank him, and start to walk away when the Captain asks to speak with Spock.

Scotty shakes his head. Whatever happened on that planet, it was a right mess. He hopes his friends are okay.

* * *

He dreads it, but he has to make sure, has to know for certain that Uhura's injuries were not intentional.

"Spock, I couldn't help but noticing that Uhura was pretty banged up when I got you guys out of the cell. Just..." he takes a deep breath and runs his hand through his hair. "Tell me she's okay, and I'll believe you."

Spock, Kirk notices, is a sickening shade of green and is staring fixedly at the floor.

"Lieutenant Uhura's injuries...you have my word she will recover and no further harm will come to her, Captain."

Kirk gives him a nod. "All I need to know."

McCoy rushes over to them. "Jim! What the hell happened down there? Jesus, you look bad."

Kirk gives a hollow laugh, the laugh belaying the fact his knees are about to buckle. "You should see the other guy."

McCoy only shakes his head. "Where's Uhura? I'm going to need to check her out, too."

"Doctor McCoy, if you would give me a dermkit, I will be able to attend to Lieutenant Uhura."

McCoy shakes his head. "No dice, Spock, sorry."

Uhura limps over, wanting to know what all the fuss is about; she was waiting for Spock at the end of the hallway.

McCoy looks up at the noise of Uhura limping and hissing in pain. His face goes pale, his lips forming a thin, angry line for a moment before he speaks. "Uhura! Good god, woman, what happened to you? Get down to the sick bay right now!"

"Doctor, if you would please just give me a dermkit," Spock is insistent now, his voice rising a little.

McCoy turns on him, his fist clenching and it's obvious that he's using every ounce of control not to kill Spock right on the spot. "Not on your hobgoblin life! What did you do to her?"

Nyota insinuates herself between the two glaring men and pulls the doctor's attention back to her by taking his face in her hands. "I'm fine, Leonard. Really. It's all...surface hurt. I really don't want to go to the sick bay and get poked and prodded and have a bunch of people look at me. Can you please just give Spock a dermkit? I really just want to go to my quarters, get patched up and sleep for a good long while. The mission was..." she looks at Kirk.

McCoy places his hands over hers, using their joint grip to pull her to the side of the hallway, glaring at Spock the whole time. "Uhura, hon, you're anything but fine. If you're covering for him, for any reason at all--"

Jim steps over to them and pulls McCoy gently away from the lieutenant. "Bones, that's enough. Give Spock a dermkit and leave them alone. That's an order."

Bones stares at his friend and Captain, the puzzlement and anger evident on his face. He is unable to ignore the direct order, yet his sense of honor will not allow him to let this lie. He wants answers and he's going to get them, come hell or high water. He opens his mouth to say just that, but Kirk cuts him off.

"Look," he says quietly. "I know it looks bad, but things aren't what they seem. I promise, if she isn't any better by tomorrow I'll send her along to you. Spock's not going to object, he cares for her far too much to let any serious injury she may have go unchecked by a medical professional. I need you to trust me on this one, Bones, okay?"

McCoy holds Jim's gaze, agreeing to trust Kirk, but not liking it one bit. He turns, heading back up the hall, mumbling something about being right back with that dermkit and wondering what the hell happened to them on that planet.

Spock stares at Kirk, not quite believing what Kirk just did for him. Kirk does not know what happened in that cell; he does not even know if Kirk is aware of his...infirmity while on A-75. Yet Kirk issued a direct order to the Chief Medical Officer, even in violation of Starfleet Code, and Spock is not sure why. Is it a demonstration of friendship? Or is it actually a form of blackmail? Will Kirk use this against him later, taunting him, even using it to take Nyota away from him?

_Adun, _she admonishes in his mind, _no one can take me away from you, not willingly. I beat up the last man who tried, don't you remember?_

He grows warm at the thought of his Nyota kicking his brother for trying to kill him. _Yes, I remember_.

Nyota's laugh trills in his head, like the sound of a pleasant chord of his lyre. _I can't believe I'm saying this...about Kirk, of all people, but you should try to be nicer to him...he did, after all, save us. He's trying, Spock, to be your friend. _

It is a gentle admonishment, but an admonishment all the same. He has forgotten that she can hear him, that there is almost no part of his mind that is closed to her. He will, of course, have to work on this; there are things that she cannot see, not right now, things he will explain to her later.

_I understand, aduna, thank you._

She gives him a small smile and squeezes his hand.

* * *

If that green-blooded, ice-hearted son of a bitch dared to harm her...

He isn't sure if he'll be able to follow the Hippocratic oath, if need be.

He wasn't able to find much on Pon Farr. Just a bunch of metaphorical nonsense about burning and fires and insatiable need. He isn't sure what it all means, exactly--he's a doctor, not a poet--but he is pretty sure that it wasn't just an hour's foray. And Uhura...she's so small. Granted, McCoy has first hand knowledge that she can kick some serious ass; he saw her during combat training at the Academy. But Spock's a damn Vulcan. She trusts him, for reasons he can't begin to fathom. What if he broke that trust? What if he did some weird mind power thing over her? McCoy loves Uhura like she were his own sister and he would be very glad to show Spock the Southern way of dealing with men who don't treat women the proper way.

But, Jim did tell him to just hand them the derm kit and Jim would sooner fall on his own proverbial sword than have anything happen to Uhura. As much as McCoy doesn't like it, he's going to have to trust Spock, because he trusts his Captain.

God knows why.

* * *

Kirk looks around Bones's office. He wonders where Bones keeps the Romulan ale that he gave him for graduation. He knows Bones hasn't drunk it yet, so it has to be somewhere in this office. Uhura is in the chair next to him, facing the desk, with Spock standing behind her, his hand over her shoulder. They keep touching each other, as if they're afraid if they separate it will be forever. Every once in a while they'll just look at each other and Kirk gets the feeling that there's a conversation going on that he is not privy to.

Where in the world does Bones keep his alcohol?

Bones comes in with the derm kit and tosses it to Spock without a word to the First Officer.

"Thank you, Doctor," Spock says.

Bones just nods and Kirk knows he's pissed that he isn't able to examine Uhura, but he's just going to have to live with it. This is not the time to stick to protocol and Kirk is certain that once he explains the situation, Bones will agree.

Bones waves his hands, "Get out of here," he tells the two gruffly. "And get plenty of rest, especially you, Uhura. I want to see you—both of you—in two days just to make sure everything's alright. Agreed?"

Spock nods and Uhura thanks him and the couple walk out the door, Spock's hand on the small of Uhura's back.

Kirk gets up to leave. If Bones isn't even going to be kind enough to offer him some Romulan ale, then he's just going to have to open up his own stash. He wants to sleep for at least a day and then some, and hopefully when he wakes up, he won't feel like death warmed over.

Bones's hand comes down on his shoulder, pushing him back with such force back into his seat that it's hard enough to wake up his bruises and cracked rib, making them scream in protest. He hisses in pain, but Bones doesn't seem to care. He hears the beep of a medical tricorder from somwhere over his left shoulder and McCoy's angry voice in his ear.

"Not so fast, Jim. Sit your ass back down. You have a hell of a lot of explaining to do."

Kirk grins at him. "Aren't you going to offer me a drink, first?"

* * *

Gods, she hurts.

But she's happy. They're home, safe, and soon she can take that long hot shower and sleep for a good long while. There are very good pain meds in that derm kit and they'll be very helpful in her recovery.

The feel of Spock's hand on the small of her back is so comforting. He's so much more free in touching her and she's going to miss it when he goes back to normal...when their lives go back to normal.

She feels a wave of inadequacy that's not hers and she realizes that it's Spock, that he feels inadequate for not being able to express his emotions in a physical manner.

She shrugs internally. _I don't like handsy men, anyway._

_Handsy? _She can feel his quizzical expression, the one that means his eyebrow has gone up.

_Men who like to touch me all the time, the ones who feel like they need to grab in order to show their claim, or whatever. It's all very...primitive. _

_Ah. But you regret when the fever completely fades and I will no longer be so...demonstrative in my affections towards you._

_What can I say? I'm illogical. _

She feels his amusement and she is glad that he understands the joke. They make it to her quarters and she hesitates, unsure of what to do now. By Vulcan standards, they are practically married. They are bonded, have gone through Pon Farr. Besides the ceremony, there isn't much more to make them official. Still, she is used to their separate quarters, their separateness as beings and now they are one. Will they share quarters? Will they keep separate quarters and make a gradual process out of moving in together? Why wasn't there protocol to these things? Why didn't she know what to do?

_Nyota, calm yourself. It is not necessary that these questions be answered immediately, we will visit them at another time. Right now, we must attend to your injuries._

She nods in agreement, thankful for his calming presence. It must be because of their...ordeal that she's so emotional. She places her palm up the bioscanner of her door and it slides open, allowing her entrance. She pulls Spock in and the door slides closed behind them.

She turns to face him, suddenly engulfed with the desire to be held. He must understand her request through their meld because he complies, holding her to him as if she's made out of glass, like she will break if he holds her too tightly.

"You can hold me just a little bit more tightly, you know," she murmurs into his chest.

"You are bruised in so many places, Nyota, I dare not," he mutters into her hair.

She realizes that she smells and looks like a fine mess and while having Spock hold her is nice, she would really like that hot shower. Her muscles are aching, screaming really, and she needs the relief. Without a word, Spock picks her up, cradling her to his chest and walking towards the bathroom. He sets her down once they get to her small bathroom and slowly undresses her, taking care not to pull too harshly on her already aching body. He gets Kirk's shirt off of her and she's pleased that despite the fact that she hasn't showered in days and she's covered in bruises, the flare of desire is still in his eyes as he gazes appreciatively at her chest.

"Spock," she says softly, regretfully, "I'm going to need a couple of days."

"Of course, Nyota," he whispers, his eyes traveling up to her face. "I apologize. I will wait how ever long you wish."

He pushes the skirt gently down her hips, letting it pool at her feet. He turns from her, turning on the shower to the water setting and making it as hot as possible. Soon there is steam filling the small bathroom and already she feels better. He gestures for her to get in and she steps gingerly into the shower, sighing as the water works its magic on her.

She rolls her shoulders, tipping her head back and letting the water wash away the grime from her hair. She realizes, among her bliss and relief, that Spock is still in the bathroom, unsure of what to do.

"I'll be fine, Spock. If you want to meditate, you're welcome to do so."

"Thank you," he tells her and she can feel his relief at having something to do, having a sense of direction.

"Though, would you mind doing something first?" She asks.

"What is it, Nyota?"

"Could you get rid of that skirt? I don't care what you do with it, I just never want to see it ever again."

"Of course, Nyota. I will take care of it immediately." She sees him through the steam picking up the offending skirt off the floor and carrying out of the bathroom.

She sighs in relief, closing her eyes and allowing herself to finally relax, knowing that the remnants of Sybok and that horrid planet are literally going down the drain.

She steps out of the shower an indeterminate time later, wrapping herself in a sapphire robe. She lets her hang loose, letting it dry naturally. She'll have a hell of a time trying to straighten it in the morning, but that's next morning and to be honest she doesn't want to deal with that now.

She walks out into her living quarters and finds Spock in the kitchen. And by the smell of it he's making chicken soup. She smiles; it reminds her so much of home, of her mother making her soup when she was sick and it's so unbelievably sweet that she thinks she might cry.

"Please do not cry, Nyota. I meant only to provide you with sustenance. My mother used to make soup for me when I was ill."

"Oh, Spock." She thinks she really will cry now.

He looks up at her, his face etched with worry. "Nyota, are you in pain or further injured?"

She shakes her head. "No, Spock," she tries to smile, but her voice is thick and the tears are threatening to spill despite her efforts to stop them.

"Then I do not understand," he says almost helplessly.

"Sometimes humans cry when their partners do something unexpected for them. It's because I'm happy, Spock."

He purses his lips, she knows he doesn't quite understand, it's like a mathematical equation that doesn't quite make sense, but he accepts it and that's what she loves about him.

She sees that he's put the derm kit on the coffee table and she goes over to it, opening it to take the pain killers. He walks over to her, covering her hand.

"Allow me," he tells her.

He takes out the hypospray, telling her that it's an anti-inflamatory and will help with her pain. He apologizes for the sting, and tells her she needs to eat, that she has not eaten in so long. She really just wants to curl up next to him on the sofa, listening to music and reading like they used to, like their Academy days. Instead, he goes into the kitchenette area of her quarters and pulls out a packet from the cabinet. He adds hot water, stirring it until he is satisfied with the mixture. She sits on the couch, watching him as he carries out a steaming bowl of what smells like chicken noodle soup and she knows she's going to lose the battle with crying. All of that pent up emotion and all of those tears that she constantly held back are going to break through her emotional dam and there isn't a thing she can do to stop it.

By the time Spock walks over to her, the tears are coming down her face and she knows that she's going to have to explain to him why she's crying like this and she hopes that she can.

His lips purse and his brows furrow just a little. Through their link, she senses his panic, his feeling that he's caused her some sort of pain.

She shakes her head. "No, Spock, I'm sorry I'm being emotional."

He places the soup on the table before kneeling down and taking her face in his hands. "No, k'diwa, do not ever apologize for being emotional. What is bothering you?"

"We're alive," she whispers. "We're alive and off of that planet, and for a while there I wasn't sure we were going to make it, and you're making me soup, of all things, chicken soup, at that. My mom, when I was a girl, would make me soup when I was sick, and I just--" she hiccups and buries her face in his neck, letting it all go, her arms wrapped around him.

He holds her, careful not to hold her too tightly and press on her bruises but enough for her to feel him, to feel the emotions of calm and serenity that he tries to transfer to her.

"We are alive, Nyota, and we never have to see that planet ever again. We will heal our wounds and continue on our way. We will put this behind us. We are officers of Starfleet. That is what we do."

She nods into his neck, her tears subsiding. Eventually, she looks up.

"You said something about soup?"


	26. Chapter 26

**A/N: My many thanks to AtanaM and mhgood, for not only betaing this chapter so quickly, but for also understanding the very essence of this chapter, when I was very much afraid it would be completely lost. My many thanks also go to my friends, especially Elizawriter. Friends are what make this world worthwhile.  
2nd A/N: Thanks to AtanaM for assuring people this isn't the end of Nar. While this is the end of this particular story arc, there is still more more in Nar to explore and I hope you'll still continue to be along for the ride.**

* * *

Surreal.

That's the word.

She tried to explain to Spock how surreal this was, but she isn't sure how successful she was. She was, after all, hiccuping and crying and babbling all about being home on the ship, and being away from that planet and that cell and Sybok, and they were okay, they were safe and alive. He was doing things that were so completely normal, so ordinary, like making her soup, and it struck her through the haze of pain and exhaustion that they were going to get past this. The realization was so incredible that she had to cry.

Now she is finished crying. It is time to live.

* * *

He walks down the hallway, unsure if what he is doing is the wisest decision, but it is necessary.

He was loathe to leave Nyota, if just for a little while; he would have much rather stayed and watched her sleep. After holding her after she ate, feeling and sensing her fall into sleep, then lying her down on her bed, making sure that she entered the REM stage of sleeping, he realized that he had matters to attend to before he could meditate.

He arrives at the door to the Captain's quarters and he requests entrance. The door swishes open with Kirk standing in the doorway, looking slightly bleary-eyed, still shirtless--his chest bound in bone regeneration webbing--and holding a glass of what smells like alcohol.

"Something the matter, Spock?" he asks.

Spock places his hands behind his back, straightening his back just a little. "Captain, I wanted to thank you for your discretion today."

Kirk stares at him for a second before nodding his head towards the room. "Come on in."

Spock walks in, for a second panicking. Was he correct in his original assumption? Will the Captain use his...affliction against him? Will Kirk demand that he resign?

Kirk collapses in a chair. "Want a drink?"

Spock shakes his head, still cautious.

Kirk shrugs. "Suit yourself. It's Andorian brandy. Best damn stuff in the 'verse. Makes a man feel alive."

"Pardon, Captain?" Spock does not quite understand how an alcoholic beverage can make a man feel alive. Is he unable to breathe, his heart unable to pump blood without the brandy in his system?

Kirk waves a hand towards the chair next to him. "Sit, Spock. You loom over people, did you know that?"

Spock raises his eyebrow. "No, Captain, I was not aware."

"So...'xactly what are you thanking me for?" Kirk asks him, his words starting to slur.

Spock lowers himself into the chair. "You accepted my assurance that Lieutenant Uhura would not sustain serious harm from her injuries. You then ordered Doctor McCoy to give me the dermkit. I am...grateful."

Kirk takes another sip of brandy. "She's a hell of a woman, Spock."

Spock's lips quirk. "So I have heard on numerous occasions."

Kirk laughs. "Yeah, I'll bet." He turns his glass in his hand, staring intently at it. "You said she was fine, Spock, and I believe you. After all that we've been through, do you really think I've had any reason to doubt you? And Uhura...she's not a girl to trust just anyone; and you, you're not a the most open of guys," he chuckles. "But you two...you have something and I'm sure as hell not going to stand in between that."

He lifts his head up and Spock instantly receives the impression that the Captain is trying to tell him more than just his flippant, slightly drunken words. He receives the impression that the Captain truly respects him and Nyota, and because of that respect Kirk is not a threat.

He is a friend.

It was decided in a time and place not of this universe that he and Kirk were friends...he believes the human moniker is best friends. They would have died for each other, not because they were fellow Starfleet officers, but because the men, during their travels and adventures, had become as close as brothers.

He is not sure if they will ever be that close in this universe...there are a lot of aspects of this life that are different from the life of his elder self, but for once in his life, Spock believes he has a friend.

He clears his throat. "I think I would like to sample that Andorian brandy, Jim. Vulcans are, of course, immune to the inebriating effects of alcohol, but I have been told the taste is...intriguing."

Kirk looks at him and slowly smiles, the happiness reaching his eyes. "Sure, Spock."


	27. Chapter 27

**Thank you to mhgood, for calling this fluff-with-purpose when I was afraid it was just the frosting on top of grocery store cookies without the cookie underneath. Thank you to AtanaM, for reminding me that these characters are not much older than I am and thus have license not to know everything just yet. And thank you to both of them for betaing this so very quickly, so I can try to get out as many chapters before school claims my time and sanity again.  
Also, because there was some question last chapter about this--no, Nar is not over. There are still lots of questions to be answered and tales to be told and I hope that you'll continue to stay for the ride, if you're so inclined.**

He is unsure how to proceed.

In his mind, there is no question—Nyota is his mate, his wife, the woman to whom he is bonded. The rest is a matter of ceremony, trivial legalities, and pomp and circumstance. After a life of being the son of a diplomat, he has had enough of the ceremony and the ritual. He recognizes its necessity and plans to make arrangements if they are ever near New Vulcan; but ceremonies and official papers do not change something he already knows.

However, this is not the human way. Humans court; he has researched this. Then they move in together after careful thought. Then there is talk of marriage—a proposal, it is called. The man presents the woman with a ring and then they are engaged to be married as the arrangements are made. Humans, after all, are not telepathic. There is not a mental bond to be made. The bond between humans seems to be entirely intangible, a merging of material possessions rather than minds and souls, perhaps even unexplainable. Like subatomic particles meeting, he thinks. There is chaos, the matter entirely left up to chance and humans, it seems, rely entirely on faith and emotions to find and hold onto a mate.

Illogical.

He realizes that he and Nyota have not followed the traditional pattern. They were thwarted by his...affliction, and now he is uncertain how he is to proceed.

He has a mate, yet they possess separate dwellings. He has not presented her with a ring, has not made a declaration of undying love and the promise of forever. He cannot. He has tried, has tried so very hard to say the words he knows she wants to hear, but he cannot bring himself—his Vulcanity cannot bring himself—to allow him to say them.

He sits at his desk in his own quarters, he notes with a fair amount of irritation, and ponders this. It is a pretty problem, he will admit. It is complex and requires him to understand the subtleties of human behavior. While he appreciates the challenge, it is currently keeping Nyota out of his bed and away from him, and he has no idea how to make it stop.

He inwardly sighs. Perhaps the problem requires additional meditation.

* * *

She wishes she knew the protocol to these things.

After one helps one's boyfriend through a potentially lethal hormonal problem, becomes bonded to him, which in in Vulcan culture means they're practically married, at what point does one say, 'so, my place or yours?'

She feels a sense of frustration and she isn't sure if it's hers or Spock's. Their emotions at times seem to be indistinguishable and she is sometimes unsure if she herself is feeling the emotion or if it is being projected on her.

Does Spock feel the same sense of frustration? Does he want to move in with her? She would like nothing more, it seems kind of stupid to have someone in her head, but not living with her, but she wanted him to be the one to bring it up. This is all so very new to her—she doesn't want to do anything wrong.

She looks out her window at the stars passing by, so many points of light, and it never fails to take her breath away. They're so very small, she thinks, out here in the universe. All of these stars that are so very old and all of this space that has yet to be explored.

It puts things into perspective.

She may not know exactly what to do in her situation, but she has to talk to Spock. After all, her mother always told her if you want something done, to do it yourself. Nyota smiles as she remembers the other thing her mother often said.

Never expect a man do what you want him to.

She would talk to Spock about moving in together. The situation was currently keeping her out of his bed and away from him. Most likely, it momentarily offend his Vulcan sensibilities but things as they currently are were vastly...unsatisfactory. Besides, she had the rest of her life to make up for it.

* * *

After having a murderous, arms-dealing psychopath after him, everything else just seems dull to James Kirk.

He shifts in his captain's chair. They are once again exploring the infinite abyss of space and he is surprised to find himself to be bored. It is an odd feeling; after all, just a few short days ago, he was in a cell, unsure if he would ever see the sky again, or, for that matter, anything else. Now here he is, as if it were all just a very bad dream.

Of course, all the paperwork he has to complete reminds him that it is indeed a reality. He does, after all, have to explain a hell of a lot.

But, he is used to it. He has had to do a lot of explaining over the years, and this just happens to be a lot bigger than the rest.

He's not worried.

Chekov and Sulu are having some kind of discussion, though he can only catch parts of it. Every once in a while, Chekov's voice raises and his accent gets thicker, and Kirk knows he shouldn't laugh, but there's something really damn funny about Chekov's Russian accent.

Uhura's fiddling with her console, the very picture of professionalism. He is not sure of what exactly it is that she could be listening to out here in the black, but that's why he's not the communications officer. Spock is analyzing something on his computer, more than likely something science related. He would ask his first officer, but he would rather not fall asleep. He has only a couple more hours to go in his shift.

It's a pity Bones has told him to stop bothering him and the female nursing staff in the Med Bay. He could use some entertainment.

He gives up. The worst thing that will happen is that Spock will put him to sleep with his toneless droning about something like a nebula.

"What's going on,Spock?" Kirk asks him casually.

There is a long pause, so long that Kirk looks back to make sure his First Officer heard him.

"I do not know how to answer that question, Captain. There are many things 'going on,' Captain. It is the principle of quantum physics that anything and everything that can happen will happen in equal and separate universes. Thus, I cannot be privy to everything that is 'going on.' I am not omniscient; I am Vulcan."

Kirk has trouble keeping the laughter out of his voice. "Uhura, as our resident translator, would you please explain to Spock what I meant?"

Uhura glares at him, though he knows she isn't truly mad at him. "Commander, the Captain simply meant to inquire about the progress of your shift."

Spock raises his eyebrow. "Why did you not phrase your question like that, Captain?"

Kirk rolls his eyes. "I guess it never occurred to me, Spock. Now, are you going to answer my question?"

"Certainly, Captain. My readings suggest a previously undiscovered red dwarf star, a finding that will be central to the end of the shift report," Spock says evenly. Nyota smiles, feeling the excitement from him. He truly loves this part of his job—the discovery of new objects. Some men geek out over intergalatic sports teams, Spock geeks out over the discovery of a dwarf star.

"Fascinating," Kirk says, implying that it is really anything but. "What about you, Uhura?"

Uhura smiles, adjusting another control on her console. "My primary focus this shift was intraship communications, sir, which for the most part were mundane in nature."

Kirk tsks disapprovingly. "Pity, we could use some gossip."

"I believe helmsman Sulu has managed to procure some new plant samples for the botanical garden," Spock says.

Kirk sighs. "_Not_ gossip, Spock."

"Vat samples hawe you gotten, Sulu?" Chekov asks him.

"This amazing plant from Orion that's like Earth's Venus fly trap, though it's a neon purple color and eats insects. The Terran translation is--"

"Man-eater," Uhura says, chuckling. "Gaila had one at the Academy."

Kirk regards her with wistful sadness, "Gaila _was _one at the Academy," he says sadly. Nyota gives him a small, sad smile before returning to face her console.

Sulu looks over to Uhura. "Really? Wow. They're really hard to find and rather fickle creatures. I'm hoping mine survives the journey to the ship."

Uhura shrugs. "Gaila's was sturdy enough. I'm sure yours will survive the trip."

"Come on, people," Kirk says exasperatedly, "surely you have something better than plants to talk about."

"Plants can be wery interesting, Keptin," Chekov interjects.

"Especially when we're out here in space, sir," Uhura adds. "It's nice to be reminded of home, especially when it's the little things."

Kirk gives his communications officer a small smile. "Point taken, Lieutenant. I will cease to complain about neon purple plants."

* * *

Nyota doesn't even bother to change out of her uniform before she goes to talk to Spock.

She wonders if she should wait until he finishes meditating, but she's so frustrated and she's fairly certain that not all of the frustration is hers. She has an inkling that Spock wants to talk about this as much as she does. She hopes that all he needs is a push.

She is surprised to find that the door immediately allows her in once the bioscanner reads her hand, meaning Spock gave her unrestricted access. She hesitates for just a moment before stepping inside, looking around for Spock.

"I will be with you momentarily, Nyota," he calls from his sleeping quarters.

She shifts her feet, looking around. His quarters look so _impersonal._ Of course, so do her quarters. Though they have been on the _Enterprise_ for a while now, no one has had much chance to do any interior decorating. Some prefer not to, while others collect things on shore leave, decorating as they go along. Still, she wishes she saw something from his personal life, something that made this place look lived in.

She wonders what their hypothetical quarters would look like. Would their possessions be kept separate, all of her books on one shelf and his on another, or would they intermingle according to subject? Would there be an African sculpture next to a Vulcan one?

How in the world would they work this out?

He clears his throat to alert her of his presence and she looks up to see him standing in the doorway. When she looks inwardly, she feels him in the back of her mind, trying not to listen to her thoughts, trying not to pry. She is grateful; they still have many lessons ahead of them helping her with the mind-meld.

"Did you wish to speak with me, Nyota?" Spock asks politely.

She nods, "Can we sit down?"

"Of course," he gestures to the sofa, where she goes to sit.

She folds her hands on her lap, suddenly nervous. She is unsure why; she knows this conversation will be productive, that they have many things to discuss, and pretending that they don't exist is not helping matters. She considers briefly that the nervousness is not her own; after all, Spock has a penchant for expecting the worst and because he seems to go out of his way to make sure he is not reading her mind. Sometimes she truly thinks he has no idea what she is about to say.

He sits down next to her, closer than he would have before their bonding.

"Nyota, what is wrong?"

She looks, meeting Spock's eyes. He looks so anxious, like he truly wants to help and yet has no idea how. She takes one of his hands in hers, turning it palm up and running her fingernails lightly across the sensitive surface. She smiles at the shiver she feels run through him.

"I think we should move in together," the words spilling out of her before she knows what to do. She had planned on forming a careful, calm, and logical argument. She takes a breath before continuing, hoping she can salvage this, "I know we're not formally bonded by Vulcan standards, but we are bonded in every way that matters and, ashayam, it may be months before we're near New Vulcan. I don't want to go to my quarters, alone, after my shift anymore. You are in my head and my heart and it is only logical that you should be in my quarters as well."

She looks at him anxiously, wondering if she has offended him. He is, after all, the son of a diplomat. He probably has a love of ceremony and going through protocol. Instead, she feels a sense of relief, a sense of happiness. His lips quirk up and his eyes light up.

"That would be most agreeable, ashal-veh. Though Starfleet regulations state that we must inform the Captain and submit a form to co-inhabit the same quarters.

"Ugh, that's one conversation I'm dreading," Nyota sighs.

Spock tilts his head, "Why? The Captain has expressed his intention to be discreet concerning our...relationship."

Nyota just gives him a look. "It's _Kirk_, Spock. I'm glad you guys are becoming friends and all, but he hasn't matured that fast."

Spock considers this and decides not to press the matter. "I will speak with him alone if you think you will only become angered by the encounter."

"No," she shakes her head, "this is something we should do together. Let's start on that form and then go talk to him. The sooner we get that out of the way, the better."

He nods, getting up to retrieve his personal PADD on his desk. He uploads the necessary file and sits back down next to her, beginning to fill out the required fields, occasionally asking Nyota for input. Nyota, meanwhile, leans up against him, taking this moment to relax.

"Where will we live?" she asks him.

He doesn't look up from the PADD. "New quarters accommodating two people are assigned to us."

"Oh. That makes things...simple."

He looks over at her. "What do you mean?"

"Well, otherwise we would have to deal with the question, your place or mine? And then it would depend on who liked their quarters more."

Spock looks confused and the emotion that he transmits through their link bellies it. "I do not care where our quarters are, Nyota; I only care that you are in them."

She smiles, kissing his cheek. He goes back to the form.

Spock hesitates before answering the next question.

"What's wrong?" she asks him.

"It is asking when our relationship began," he says.

"That's really none of Starfleet's business," Nyota says archly.

He admits, the question is invasive, but Starfleet must have a reason for asking, do they not?

"I'm sure they do, Spock, but it's still a nosy question."

"Nyota, what does this question have to do with noses?"

Nyota laughs. "It means that the Federation was prying. Well, I guess the best thing to do is answer with honesty. We have nothing to hide. We did not start dating until I was an aide for the phonology department and you were teaching computer programming classes. I earned every grade I got and you have the most unflinching integrity of anyone I've ever met. And if they've got a problem with it..."she trails off, the threat sounding empty, even to her. What would they do? Work in the private sector? Was there a place in the world for a human and half-Vulcan couple?

He picks up her hand and brings it to his lips. "We will make one, ashayam, if need be. However, I do not think it will come to that."

She smiles up at him. "You're right, I'm being stupid."

He shakes his head. "No, not stupid, cautious."

Spock finishes the form and they both sign it before Spock submits it for approval.

"We should go speak with Kirk," he tells her.

She looks at their hands, still intertwined. They really should go speak with Kirk. After all, they've submitted the form. Still, it would be so nice to just stay here, have some dinner, take a nice, warm shower...lots of soap and hot, strong hands gliding slowly down...

"Nyota," Spock growls in warning.

"Fine," she sighs. "Let's go."

* * *

Kirk stares at his PADD, wishing that his report about A-75 would write itself.

Mainly, should he include Shylock's role in the weapon's dealing and his escape, or keep to the deal and leave Shylock out of it? Sybok's death can be easily explained as self-defense and he doubts anyone is going to question it, not when he has Spock and Uhura and Bones's medical reports confirming his torture.

Besides, people tend to believe you when you have 'Captain' in front of your name and you've saved the universe from a grief-crazy Romulan.

He thinks about the destruction of Vulcan, all because of the red matter technology. He thinks about Spock's face as he saw his planet disappear. He remembers the faces of the Vulcans they rescued, the sense of hopelessness, of grief that was overwhelming in the Sick Bay that day.

"Deal's over, Shylock," he mutters, beginning to fill out his report.

He hears his door chime.

"Enter," he calls, saving the file before shutting the PADD off.

He turns around, surprised to find his First Officer and Communications Officer in his quarters. They stand slightly apart and Uhura looks uncomfortable. Spock--hell, he has no idea how Spock looks, he hasn't quite figured out the Vulcan's facial expressions yet.

"Spock, Uhura. Sit down; want a drink? What can I do for you fine people?" he asks jovially.

They both decline the drink and he wonders if he and Bones are the only ones who actually do any drinking on this ship. Except for Scotty, who could drink both of them under the table before breakfast and probably before even getting out of bed. He gestures for them to sit on his couch and they do so simultaneously. His eyes widen just a little bit, he wonders if they'll speak at the same time, too.

"What's up, guys?" he asks.

"Captain, we have filled out the necessary files to co-inhabit the same quarters. Because you are the Captain, we felt the need to tell you in person. You will, of course, have to approve our request, and we have come seeking your approval and asking for your discretion in the matter, as you have been so kind to show us in the past," Spock says.

His cadence is a little bit fast, as if he is both struggling to get the words out and cannot get them out fast enough. Nyota reaches over and squeezes his hand. Kirk smiles. He knows that any touch between those two is so private, something they don't do in front of anyone, and he considers himself honored to be privy to the action of Spock and Uhura holding hands. It's...cute.

'Jesus, Kirk,' he thinks. 'You're going soft.'

He smirks. "You guys came to my quarters just to tell me that? To be honest I'm surprised you haven't been shacking up before. Screw regulations."

Spock's eyebrows go up and Kirk inwardly chuckles. He thinks he just might have shocked the Vulcan. "Yeah, I'll approve the request. As far as I'm concerned, you guys are co-inhabiting. Go, moving's a bitch; why don't you guys get started?"

"We cannot, Captain," Spock says, and if Kirk were more foolish, he would say that Spock was sullen about it. Uhura, meanwhile, has her lips pursed, displeased by Kirk's response.

"Until the file is approved and new quarters are assigned to us, recognizing us as a single entity, we cannot co-inhabit."

Kirk rolls his eyes. "Oh, you've got to be kidding me. Fine," he gets up, grabbing his PADD. He finds their file and approves it, dating it yesterday. He then pulls up a list of empty quarters, looking for ones accommodating couples.

"Just so you know, in the grand scheme of things, I don't think Starfleet cares that much about officers and their quarters."

Spock looks at him as if he just started speaking Trill. "We are senior officers, Captain. We are not only setting an example for everyone else on the ship, but to blatantly disregard Starfleet regulations--"

Kirk rolls his eyes. "Yeah, I know, it's illogical. Look, there's an empty double-quarters on the same floor as your quarters, Spock. Sound good, guys?"

"Yes, Captain, thank you," Uhura says, and Spock nods once.

Kirk gets up and his senior officers get up as well, again in one fluid motion. He really wants to know how they do that.

"Have fun moving, guys, and let us know when the new quarters party is."

As they walk out, he hears Spock ask Uhura, "Nyota, what is a 'new quarters party?'"


	28. Chapter 28

**This is the one time I feel it entirely necessary to make this author's note like an awards speech, so if you'll kindly indulge me, I would appreciate it. Thank you to the comment that said that for the most part Pon Farr fics were just excuses for porn and being the bored nerd that I am, I said "watch me" and started writing Nar, thank you to mhgood, who took a chance and went with my idea and agreed to be my beta, thank you to AtanaM, who got it so much she became my second beta and she's provided me with so much insight and plot bunnies and comments that my thanks seem trite in comparison, thank you to all of my "real life" friends, who put up with my constant blathering about fanfic. Thank you, so so very much to Elizawriter, who has put up with me way more than she really should, and, the reason for this silly A/N in the first place, thank you to all the people who nominated me and voted for me in the Spock/Uhura awards. You make my days, you really do, and now I have a really spiffy award. You're amazing, each and every one of you and thank you so much for reading and commenting and favoring and subscribing. You make it worth it.**

Boxes.

Everything in her life is now in boxes.

Some of those boxes are on Earth, either in the storage unit at the Academy that Starfleet issued all of its active servicepeople, or the boxes left at her parent's house when she moved out. Now, the stuff that she took with her, her books and clothes and PADDs and a couple of works of art, are in boxesin her new quarters.

_Their _new quarters.

Spock isn't here yet and she wonders why. She expected to find him impatiently waiting for her, perhaps even unpacking without her. Yet she is standing in the middle of their new quarters, wondering where he is.

* * *

He has never co-inhabited quarters with anyone else before.

No, after momentary reflection, that statement is not entirely factual. There was his roommate of one day and six hours at the Academy. Then he abruptly requested a transfer, much to Spock's confusion. He had thought they were adjusting quite well. Despite regulations stating the contrary, the Academy did not deem it necessary to assign him another roommate. Although the situation was unorthodox, Spock found that it did not bother him unduly. He preferred the solitude to study and meditate when he so wished.

It is illogical to worry. He wants this. He found it displeasing to return to his quarters after his shift and not have Nyota there to welcome him. Yet part of him whispers to him, suggests to him that she will find his presence suffocating, that she will find his habits displeasing, that she will eventually get frustrated with him and leave him. He is Vulcan, different, not like her. She is laughter and vivacity and everything that he is fundamentally not.

Not for the first time, he thinks that she deserves better.

He is careful to shield these thoughts from her. It would make him uncomfortable to discuss with her how he thinks that he is not a suitable mate for her and he does not wish to convince her of his point. Instead, he closes the link between them just enough that she is unable to feel his emotions nor read his thoughts. This is lying; he knows this. It is dishonest and deplorable and he wants to bare his soul to her, to have her know everything about him, yet there is a part of him that mocks him for being so desperate for her approval. _Real_ Vulcans, it tells him, would not think like this, would be content with the bond, would not feel it necessary to discuss every little thing. He sees the disapproving face of his father; he feels the shame of not being Vulcan enough.

He casts those thoughts away. They are not productive and will only result in harming his relationship with Nyota. She chose to bond with him. She chose to help him through his Pon Farr, despite his repeated efforts to make her stay away. She chose him, a choice which awes him, and he must focus on the very fact that they are one. Parted yet never parting. Together and always touching and touched.

He feels Nyota gently questioning in his mind. She is already in their new quarters and she is wondering where he is. _Their new quarters_. The thought pleases him and he hastens to finalize his packing.

He picks up his ka'athyra, setting it in his case. His clothes are packed, as are his miscellaneous personal belongings. Kirk helpfully ordered an ensign to bring a cart to his room, so he did not have to make repeated trips to his old quarters to retrieve his belongings. He puts the boxes on the cart, placing his ka'athyra case on top carefully. He looks around him, though he is sure he has not missed anything. He pushes the cart out of the door, wondering if this slight unrest he feels coiling like a spring in the pit of his stomach is excitement.

He finds her walking around their new quarters, examining them. They have a small kitchen with a table for two. In the living area of their new quarters there is a sofa with a small table in front of it. There are two desks, a large touchscreen comp display is on the wall opposite the sofa, and he notices there is a remote access keyboard and sensor pad on the table in front of the sofa. His hands twitch—computers were his first technological interest as a boy and he possesses two doctorates in the computer science field. This computer looks different from the one in his single quarters and he wants to explore it.

He hears her laughter from the bedroom.

_Boys and their toys_, she says teasingly in his mind. _Go ahead, have fun, adun. _

He sits on the sofa, his hand on the sensor pad. He guides the cursor, testing the sensitivity. Ah, this an upgrade from the system in his old quarters. He logs into the system, poking around the interface. The system is meant to accommodate the needs of two officers in two different fields and for that he is grateful. The memory storage is adequate, the system is logical. It could use a few improvements, and he makes a mental note to ask Kirk before making any changes to his own system but...

He looks up, sensing her presence, his lips quirking up. Nyota lives with him now. The world is as it should be.

She smiles in return. "Did you want something to eat before we unpack? I was thinking of getting something from the mess."

He nods. "That would be agreeable. Thank you, Nyota."

"You're welcome. Would you happen to have any Vulcan Spice tea? I've had a mad craving for it all day, and I know the mess doesn't carry it."

"I do not have any currently, no. I shall endeavor to procure some as soon as I am able. I do find, however, that Terran chai tea is remarkably similar to Vulcan Spice."

She thinks about it for a moment. "Okay, chai sounds really good right now. Would you like some too?"

He nods. "That would be most agreeable."

Nyota smiles wider and he feels her delight through their link. "What is it, Nyota?"

"Us. This. It's so normal. I like it."

His lips quirk up and he finds that he does not feel hunger anymore, but rather something else. "As do I. Perhaps we should delay dinner and test the shower. It would be illogical to settle ourselves into these quarters without first testing to see that everything is in perfect working order."

Nyota laughs. "Spock! We have so much to do and you want to test the shower?"

He stands, walking over to her. "We have successfully transferred our belongings and it is not necessary that we unpack them immediately." He trails kisses along her neck, his hands settling on her hips. "It is also," he kisses the spot just below her ear that makes her moan, "logical to test the shower, among other things, for reasons I have stated previously."

Her hands travel up his arms, gliding up his neck before settling on his ears, pinching the tips. He growls at her softly, pulling her hips firmly to his.

"On second thought, I could use a shower," she murmurs in his ear.

He kisses her deeply, walking them towards the bathroom. He presses her against the inner wall of the hallway and Nyota breaks the kiss, licking and biting his neck, rolling her hips into him as his hands slide slowly up her legs and under her skirt, removing her panties in one long stroke. He removes her uniform top impatiently, hurriedly, cupping her breasts as his thumbs feather across her nipples as his tongue slowly meanders south. He stops as he reaches her collarbone and she can hear him whisper in her mind, _mine, _as he marks it with his teeth. She arches against him, moaning, twining her fingers in his hair as his mouth replaces his thumbs. She sighs in his ear to _hurry,_ to get them to the shower _faster._

He is more than happy to oblige.

* * *

"The bed is quite comfortable," she tells him.

"Indeed."

She smirks. "I guess we've established that it is in good working order."

His face remains as calm as ever, but he does raise an eyebrow. "We have, although after our most recent activities I find the suspension gel is no longer operating at optimum efficiency. Perhaps we should have them send us another unit?"

"Spock..."

He silences her with a fingertip against her lips. "Upon further reflection, that would be illogical, since it is in no doubt our intent to continue such activities on at the very least a weekly basis. At that rate, we would be replacing the gel at a rate of 20.7 liters per month and would seriously compromise the _Enterprise's_ reserves within 18.25 months, which would be most inconvenient for the rest of the crew. Perhaps we should leave things as they are...for now."

She bats at his arm gently, curled up next to him. "Stop being so smug. I can practically hear you smirking in my head."

He turns his head to look at her. "That is illogical, Nyota. Smirking is a facial expression, not an aural one. You cannot _hear_ me smirk."

She sticks her tongue out at him before looking up at the ceiling. "We really need to unpack."

"Yes, we should."

"You're the one who started this."

"As I explained before, my intentions were honorable. It would have been a waste of time and energy to unpack our belongings only to find the shower--"

"And your desk and the bed," she adds.

"...malfunctioning," he pauses for a moment, his eyebrows furrowing in concentration. "Why do you state that that particular desk is mine? I was under the impression we had yet to assign them?"

Nyota laughs, "After what we just did on it? Trust me...it's yours."

"Nyota..."

"Admit it," she rolls onto her stomach and partially on top of him. "You just couldn't keep your hands off of me because I'm that irresistible."

He raises his eyebrow at her. "I will admit, I found your absence to be...acute."

She grins, "because I'm irresistible."

"After careful analysis, I find no fault with your conclusion."

"You're getting better at pillow talk," she compliments, before getting out of bed. "I'm getting dressed and unpacking my stuff. If you want to stay in bed all day, that's on you."

He begrudgingly gets out of bed as well, walking into the bathroom to put on the pair of pants he folded neatly in there. He walks out into the living quarters to start unpacking, retrieving his ka'athyra case.

Nyota is brushing her hair when he walks back into their sleeping quarters, dressed now in a pair of cotton pants and a Starfleet Academy t-shirt. He places the case next to the dresser, wanting to keep it safe, near him. It is a relic now, something more than a novelty and there are very few left in the universe now, even fewer who can play it with adequate ability.

Nyota sighs and his eyes meet hers, hers filled with such grief for his planet, for him, for his people. She is expressing sadness because he cannot and he is overcome once again with gratitude for her.

"You played for me once, at the Academy. Do you remember?" she asks.

"Of course," he tells her.

"You told me at the time that you believed that the combination of music and Vulcan would help me with my dialectical nuances. You cited my singing talents with the choral ensemble along with my linguistic abilities and expressed interest in testing this theory," she says, her voice suddenly deeper, huskier.

"That is correct."

She raises her eyebrow. "How much of that was true?"

Both of his eyebrows raise in response. "All of it, aduna...I am not sure of your meaning."

She laughs a little, shaking your head. "Nothing, I guess. Just something I remember Gaila telling me."

He knows he is going to regret this, but he asks the question anyway. "What did your roommate tell you?"

She smiles slyly. "She told me that you were looking for excuses to spend more time with me."

The corner of his mouth tugs upwards, just a little. "My intentions were academic in nature, I assure you, Nyota. Though the thought of your pleasant company outside of class was certainly a stimulating one and motivated me to explore my theories of the relationship between music and language."

"You had a crush on me," she says, teasing him.

"Vulcans," he says with all the haughtiness he can muster, "do not have 'crushes.'"

She laughs in response, knowing that he is, in his own way, teasing her right back. "Yeah, right."

After a moment she looks up at him, biting her lip. "Will you play for me sometime?"

He allows himself a tiny smile. "Of course."

She smiles in return, walking over to her box of clothes, carefully pulling out her uniforms, one by one, and placing them on the bed. She goes over to the closet to get the empty hangers before hesitating. Spock can feel her uncertainty through their bond.

"What is wrong?" he asks her.

"Well, did we just want to divide the closet in half? Which side do you want? Do you even have a preference? Why doesn't Starfleet give us two closets and two dressers, anyway? They gave us two desks. It seems only logical."

She feels his amusement and she gives him a look that clearly demonstrates what she thinks of his enjoyment.

"It's not funny."

He hastens to stop projecting his enjoyment of her and his delight that she takes such consideration of him and his thoughts on things. "They did not because there is not enough room, ashayam, and there is an adequate amount of space for all of our articles of clothing in the dresser and closet provided. Do not distress yourself. Please take all the space you desire."

She walks over to him, putting her arms around his waist. "Sorry. It's been a while since I've shared living space with anyone, and I've never lived with any of my romantic partners."

A sense of pride washes over him as illogical as it is of being her "first." There is no reason for him to feel this way. After all, he was the one she chose to bond with; if he were of a more vindictive persuasion, he would say with some confidence that he won, yet there is no logic in vindication. Still, she never shared her life in her past as intimately as she has with him. No other man has ever had the experience of living with Nyota.

Except for Spock. And the knowledge is...exceptionally pleasing.

She swats him lightly on the arm, frowning slightly. "You're being smug again."

He ducks his head, kissing her cheek before he feels her mollification. She turns away, going back to her task of unpacking her clothing. She soon has her uniforms hung up, and works on her off-duty garments.

He brings in his own box of clothes, consisting mostly of his uniforms and his meditation robes. He has the sweater his mother knit him, in preparation for the coldness of Earth and the pair of jeans that she bought him because she did not believe him when he said that he did not make it a habit of using his off-duty hours for something as illogical as "going out." Nyota hangs his uniforms next to hers, the blue of his science shirts contrasting nicely with the red of her communications uniform.

He hands the jeans to her and she looks up in surprise.

"Is something the matter?" he asks her.

She shakes her head. "No, I just didn't think you even _owned_ a pair of jeans."

She unfolds them, examining them. They're slightly worn, medium blue rather than the dark-wash that she expected. She thinks back to when she rode on the back of the hoverbike with him, her image of him in tight, slightly worn jeans—just like these--a leather jacket and sunglasses, the rebellious, slightly arrogant attitude as he tosses her a helmet and whispers to her suggestive things over the comm link as they ride, her thighs tightly clenching...

He groans and she realizes that she was unconsciously projecting that image to him.

"You desired me, even as I behaved deplorably toward you?" he asks her, his voice deep and slightly rough.

"You were not yourself, I realize that now. But--" she places the jeans down on the bed and steps closer to him, poking his chest. "Next time, talk to me. I understand why you didn't, that you didn't understand what was going on and then you wanted to protect me, but if you try to pull that act on me again, there's going to be hell to pay, got it?"

He frowns slightly, and she realizes that she forgot, again. She used too many colloquialisms, made too many assumptions about his comprehension of human behavior and forgot that he may understand, but he more than likely does not comprehend.

His voice is careful, with a hint of hesitation. "We are bondmates now, Nyota. You will be able to sense when I enter...my time."

She sighs. "Spock, that may be the case, but you cannot rely on the telepathic link between us to fix everything. It's okay to talk about some things. I promise to listen and we'll do our best to work it out. But we cannot do that if you try to push me away, like you did on the planet, all right?"

Comprehension dawns, and she is relieved. He is able to unravel her meaning, interpret his behavior and modify it so they can work.

She smiles, picking up the jeans again. Folding them to his liking, she puts them in the dresser.

He takes the liberty of hanging his sweater in the closet. He hopes she does not mind, he wants to help.

"Your mother knit that for you," she says.

He does not believe he has ever told her this and for a second he is puzzled, unsure how she was able to identity the creator of the sweater.

"It's hand-knit," she offers in explanation. "Cable, an ancient Terran pattern," she runs a hand over the blue fabric, "good choice of colors, too. I bet it looks nice on you."

She does not press him for more information, like most humans he knows. She accepts his answer likes she accepts him and continues unpacking, lining up her nail polishes in a row on top of the dresser and setting her cosmetics bags on top as well.

"She worried about me. Because of my heritage, I suffered from temperature flucuations as a young child, before I could properly control my internal temperature through meditation. My mother would knit sweaters for me when my controls failed and although I had no need of sweaters by the time I reached maturity, she never ceased the habit of making them. This was the last one she knit for me and I wore it the day I declined the Vulcan Science Academy's acceptance and made the decision to attend Starfleet Academy."

"It's lucky," she says in understanding.

He considers this. "I believe humans would consider it to be so, yes."

She smiles. "Yes, we consider it to be so."

He runs his fingers over the arm of the sweater. Though he would never admit it, he considers it to be so as well.

* * *

Kirk gets himself a cup of coffee, waiting for the rest of the senior staff for the daily meeting. The coffee wasn't bad, by no means the best he's ever had, but it will do out here. He'll have to pick some up the next time they're at Federation post. After all, he's Captain James T. Kirk, and as such, he should get some good coffee.

He hears the doors open and by the sound of the cadence of footsteps it's Spock. He listens carefully, to make sure it's not both Spock and Uhura, because in his mind they come together with the conjunction. It will always be now 'Spock and Uhura.'

Spock stands before him at attention. Kirk waves his hand, wondering how many times he's going to have to tell his First Officer that he really does not care for the formality. Evidently many, because Spock continues to stand at attention.

Kirk sighs in exasperation. "At ease, Spock."

Truth be told, the only way Kirk can tell that Spock is at ease is that his hands go back behind his back instead of crisply at his sides. Otherwise, the Vulcan is ram-rod straight and his shoulders back.

"So," Kirk says, sitting down in his chair at the head of the table, pausing only a moment before giving into the urge to lean back and put his feet up on the faux mahogany table surface, "things okay?"

Spock raises his eyebrow, "'things,' Captain?"

Kirk grins. "It has been an eventful month for you—the planet...you and Uhura moving in together...lots of stuff."

"The co-inhabitation of Lieutenant Uhura and myself was a logical progression of our relationship, Captain. As a man so acquainted with women and courting, I believe you would know this."

Kirk laughs, "Fair enough, Spock. Speaking of Lieutenant Uhura, where is she?"

"I left the Lieutenant in the mess, still consuming her breakfast."

"Huh, that's weird. Uhura's always been more of a muffin and cup of coffee kind of a girl, and the muffin is usually an afterthought."

Spock raises his eyebrow again, "Indeed. Yet she seemed to desire pancakes, strawberries, whipped cream, and some sort of potato derivative called 'hash browns.'"

Kirk's stomach rumbled a little and he regretted his light breakfast. Pancakes did sound really good right now...

"I do not anticipate, however, that she will be late to the meeting, Captain," Spock continues.

"Of course not, Spock," Kirk hastens to assure him.

Sulu is the next to enter, greeting the Captain and Spock, making a beeline towards the refreshments table to get some coffee. Chekov enters next, murmuring his apologies. Kirk gets the distinct impression that the Russian whiz kid is still just a little bit intimidated by it all, yet trying very hard not to show it.

"I lost track of time, Keptin, I apologize. I was working on mathematical equations during breakfast."

"Don't worry about it, Chekov," Kirk tells him lightly. "Meeting hasn't started yet."

"Kommander Spock," Chekov says to the spot on the floor just in front of Spock's boots, "Lieutenant Uhura wished for me to inform you that she will be on her way."

Spock nods once. "Thank you, Mr. Chekov."

"Jim, can we make this quick? I'm kind of busy right now, you know, being a _doctor_," McCoy grumbles as he walks in, slumping into a chair.

"Yeah, whatever, Bones. We're waiting on Uhura now."

"Sorry," Uhura says breathlessly, walking in and carrying a muffin. "Am I late?"

Kirk shakes his head. "No, not technically. Sit down, guys, and I'll try to make this quick."

Spock sits to his right, his hands folded on the table. Uhura sits next to Spock and although they aren't speaking aloud, Kirk gets the impression that they are still holding a conversation. He feels crazy for even having such a thought, but there's just something about their body language; the way that her face is turned towards his, flickers of emotion that occasionally dance across it. Spock's eyes will occasionally flicker to her, his eyebrow raised. Once, while on duty, Kirk saw his First Officer's hand twitch and if it wasn't for his insanely good reflexes, he probably would have dropped the PADD in his hand.

He wonders what it's like, having another person in his head. At least, that's what he thinks it is. He hasn't asked them specifically what it is that bonding is, but his one experience with a Vulcan has led him to believe that, chances are, it has something to do with being inside another's mind.

He shakes his head. It's just a little bit too weird for his liking—there are just too many things he'd rather keep to himself.

"Okay, guys, we have a well-deserved chance for shore-leave coming up soon. Anyone interested should file their request and soon. No waiting until the last minute or it's an automatic no."

"Where to, Captain?" Sulu asks him.

"No place special—just a small Federation colony that has become somewhat of a port for them. Traders tend to congregate there, so if you have any shopping to do, it may be your chance to do so."

They seem interested, he notes. Truth be told, they could all use a break and he is glad to see this opportunity arise.

He discusses their course with them—and makes finalizations to it with Sulu and Chekov. He concludes the meeting after Bones asks him if there is really any need for the Senior Medical Officer to be here.

"Remember, guys, get those requests into me—I really don't want to deal with a bunch of last minute requests because you are lazy," he tells them as they leave.

He wonders if they'll actually listen to him.

* * *

Spock is hungry.

He is unsure why. There is no reason for him to be hungry. He consumed breakfast. It was oatmeal. It should be sufficient enough for him to function without the need to consume more nutrients until lunch. He then realizes that the hunger is not his, but rather Nyota's. It is so powerful that she is projecting without realizing it, as she is currently busy at her console.

He is growing concerned about her. She is consuming too much food. She seems slightly forgetful. The night before she could not recall where she placed their collection of teas and spent 13.4 minutes searching the cabinets, only to find it on the counter, in plain sight.

He wonders if it is a side effect of their bonding, if he has negatively effected her. He did not mean to, but their bonding was under stressful circumstances. While he is a particularly gifted with his psi-abilities, he was also compromised by his...affliction at the time and a mind unprepared could find the chaos of emotions and thoughts overwhelming. If stressing her cranial neural pathways too greatly, she could be harmed...she could be sick and it would be his doing, his fault.

He feels slightly ill.

He unfortunately has to talk with Kirk before he can be relieved of his duties for the day. Nyota is already in their quarters, completing her reports as she makes chocolate chip cookies. She is slightly distracted; she checks her messages every 6.8 minutes, sometimes seeing if there were any new song releases on galaTunes. She checks the cookies, to see if they were ready.

Normally, the reports would take her twenty minutes to complete.

It has been exactly forty-three minutes since she entered their quarters.

Kirk's chatter is tedious. He complains that there is one day left before the deadline for the shore leave requests and only ten crew members have deemed in necessary to follow his orders. He asks Spock if he wants to play poker. Spock is polite, answering his Captain's queries, making the appropriate comments to Kirk's remarks but he wants so very badly to tell the Captain that he has other matters to take care of.

Like determining if he adversely affected the mental health of his aduna.

"You're not listening," Kirk says. It is not an accusation but merely an observation. Spock is surprised.

"I apologize, Captain. I have, as the human saying goes, a lot on my mind."

"Ah," Kirk says in understanding, "woman troubles."

Spock considers this. "You could say that."

Kirk holds up a hand. "You needn't say more. Go, and good luck. You're going to need it," he tells his First Officer.

"Thank you," Spock tells him, truly grateful for Kirk's dismissal and, oddly, his good wishes.

He feels like he is going to need it.


	29. Chapter 29

**Well, it's been a while.  
Sorry, I don't mean to be flippant. I wish to offer my most sincere apologies for dropping off the face of the planet-personal matter and school kept me more occupied than I would like. Fortunately, I can get back to my epic and beautiful brain child now that the semester is over with.  
I want to extend all the well wishes in the world to mhgood and give her all of my thanks for all over her hard work. I hope she will be able to come back soon and until then I hope she enjoys the story.  
I also want to thank AtanaM for sticking with me through everything and betaing this so quickly. She fixed a most egregious error and added so many things to this chapter that I could not possibly thank her enough, but I will try anyway.**

**

* * *

**

She wakes up tired.

She hates this sensation. She's tired and achy and just...drained. Normally, these are feelings she associates with her period, but it's been over for three days now. Still, the feelings, the perpetual ache, exist. If her day continues like this, she may just break down and go to the sick bay and ask Christine to take a look at her. She's been meaning to anyway yet just hasn't found the time because her periods have been off-cycle for two months, lasting longer what was normal for her and were exceptionally heavy. She's been trying to tell herself it's just some lingering effects of stress from their recent ordeal or side-effects from that new contraceptive implant they picked up on Mantose IV but coupled with this tiredness, she's actually starting to be a little concerned. She does not become ill often nor does she particularly handle it well. It's starting to effect her day-to-day affairs and that is starting to tick her off. She rolls over and takes a look at the chrono beside the bed and groans. She's woken up late—she can already hear Spock in the shower and normally she's already up by then, brushing her hair and putting on her makeup.

Why didn't he wake her up? Did he want her to oversleep so he could have some power trip on the bridge, upbraiding her for being late in front of the Captain? She gritted her teeth, furious with him now for at least not shaking her awake as she got up to get dressed.

She was adjusting her uniform when he stepped out of the bathroom, towel wrapped around his waist, hair still slightly dripping from the shower. She momentarily forgot to be mad at him as she watched him go to closet, pulling out his own uniform. The towel rode low on his hips, showing her the trail of hair on his navel, the points of his pelvic bone sticking out. She has the illogical urge to nibble on them, before going on to more intriguing scenery.

He evidently catches that thought, looking at her sharply as a low rumble starts in his chest, "Nyota..."he says as a warning.

"Hmmm?" she looks at him from underneath her eyelashes, licking her lips.

"We do not have long. The Captain has requested a meeting before the beginning of the shift," he grounds out the words as if they physically hurt.

She walks over to him, sliding her hands up his chest, pinching his nipples along the way. She leans forward slightly, kissing his neck.

"We have time,"she murmurs into his neck.

He moans and captures her moth with his own but through his rapidly growing arousal, she can hear him calculating the average duration of a session of their lovemaking, adding the time needed for recovery, clean-up and travel to the bridge, then subtracting the amount of time remaining before the meeting in his head. Normally she finds it cute in a geeky sort of way, his ability to calculate to the half-second how much time can be alloted and there are often a lot of uses for his obsessive attention to detail and protocol but then, suddenly, she's furious at him again. Why can't they do anything spontaneously? Can't they do anything without Spock doing rapid calculations in his head? Why does Vulcan propriety and logic have to rule every aspect of their lives? Suddenly she hates the precision, hates that she will never walk into their quarters after a shift to find him making her favorite dinner "just because". She hates that he will never kiss her in the hallways of the _Enterprise_, because that's not him, it will never be him and all of a sudden, she hates him for it.

She feels him recoil in her mind and she realizes that she momentarily forgot that unless she concentrates, her thoughts are no longer hers alone and that annoys her even further. God, can't she have just one thought to herself?

She steps away from him, going to the dresser to grab her brush and start brushing her hair.

_Ashayam_, he rasps in her mind, _I only hear and see what you wish for me to. Nothing more, nothing less. I will not...I refuse to intrude into your mind._

The cloud dissipates and just as quickly as it came, it leaves and now she feels like an absolute bitch for doing that to him for no reason at all.

She turns to find him in the exact same spot, his face blank though, she notices, his eyes are slightly wider.

"I'm sorry," she whispers. "I didn't mean it...it's just...been crazy since we've been back, given our new schedules and moving in together and then there was that last planet where we discovered that new dialect of Numabi and Dr. McCoy put all the women on these new contraceptives that I think are messing with my hormones and I...just..."she shrugs slightly and knows she's grasping at reasons and that none of them matter, that all that matters is that she's terrible to him, that she doesn't deserve him and her throat's tightening up and soon her eyes are going to water and she hates crying in front of him. She hates crying in front of anyone, not just Spock and she finds it slightly absurd that after all this time, after all that they've been through, she's still slightly embarrassed to cry in front of him.

In fact, it's kind of stupid.

He inclines his head in acknowledgment to her apology. "I am prepared to go to the mess. I will leave you to finish your preparations."

She opens her mouth to say something else, what she's not exactly sure. She imagines that it would be to let him to she'll make it up to him later, but something behind his eyes stops her and she merely nods, telling him that she'll see him in the staff meeting. She knows not to expect some long, drawn out argument of her humanity and ability to say dumb stuff sometimes, but anything, even an inclination of his eyebrow would have been better than a simple dismissal.

She finishes getting ready, because, after all, what choice does she have? Spock was right, they have a meeting and in retrospect it was stupid to expect him to just magically forget about that meeting because she decided she wanted affection and sex.

She puts on eyeliner and mascara, staring at herself in the mirror to make sure it looks okay. Yet when she looks in the mirror, she sees not herself but the image Sybok made—her hair done up in the Vulcan up-do with all of those ultimately useful pins, the absurd amount of make-up and the even more absurd outfit that she had to wear. She looks like a whore, she looks like a slut, something to be used, an object. She scares herself, unable to control her breathing. She forces herself to get past the memory, to realize that she lives in the now, that she is wearing a Starfleet uniform. Her hair is how she wants, she is the one who applied her make-up just now. She has a career, she has respect, she has a man who loves her. She is a person, not an object and she will not let him win by seeing the objectification of herself.

Sybok is gone. She knows this.

* * *

As she walks to the mess, various crew members wave, tell her how happy they are to see her, how glad they are that she's back from the mission. She smiles, says thanks, when really all she wants to do is scream at them to go away, to stop making her remember. She can smell the food in the mess and immediately feels better because she is ravenously hungry, as if she hasn't eaten in ages and she wonders if they have pancakes. She desperately wants pancakes.

More people still wave and say hello and she tries to be polite but she is _starving_ and she really, really does not want to talk right now. She makes a bee-line for the food, piling pancake after pancake and decorating the tower with strawberries and whipped cream. At the end of the buffet there are hashbrowns and she realizes that is exactly what she's been craving, without even noticing. She doesn't, however, have any desire for coffee. Just the thought of it makes her stomach turn and she thinks of what a shame it is. She adores her coffee in the morning, loves the taste and the smell and the sensation of the caffeine jolt, but in her mind it would be like sipping bitter, acidic dishwater and she thinks it might make her throw up. She chooses instead some chai tea. It seems to calm her, soothe her even more than it did when she would drink it at the Academy.

She wonders why that is.

She looks around for Spock, then finds him sitting alone, reading a PADD. She wonders if he was always like this, if he ate alone at the lunch table when he was a child on Vulcan. She is reminded of how she would, illogically, look for him in the mess at the Academy, until as his assistant she discovered that he almost always took his meals in his office. Her heart breaks, just a little bit and she wants to reach out, to make all the hurt go away, especially the hurt she caused this morning.

She reaches him, hesitating before sitting down. Normally, she sits right next to him. Normally, she catches up on the day's news while he reads a technical journal and they talk about their reading material, their assignments for the day.

Normally...

"Nyota, why are you not sitting?" Spock asks her calmly, not looking up from his PADD.

She bites her lip, a nervous habit she is not sure how or why she picked up. "I wasn't sure if you wanted me to sit with you."

"Why would I not wish for my bondmate to sit with me?" Spock asks, genuinely confused. "We share meals together. Given the demands of our work, it would be logical to utilize this time to take pleasure in one another's company."

She smiles. He has forgiven her, in his own way. Things are okay between them and she couldn't be happier.

"Okay," she says, smiling. "Okay."

She sits, cutting up her pancakes before she realizes that she has forgotten her personal PADD she usually uses to read _The Starfleet Banner_ or read an article from _Xenolinguistics and Morphology. _She doesn't really have time to go back and get it; she'll just have to make due without it.

She looks over at Spock, who is completely engrossed in whatever it is he is reading. She realizes that their link is still quiet, quieter and less present than it normally is and it bothers her. Perhaps things are not as fine as she thought, perhaps they are, in fact, terrible and instead of bringing them closer, this bond is going to suffocate them.

God, why did she forget her PADD?

Spock leaves before she does, only having his usual breakfast of tea and oatmeal. She notices his arched eyebrow over her pancakes, strawberries, hashbrowns and her chai tea and she juts her chin out defensively, daring him to say something. Damn it, she can eat whatever she pleases!

Still, she should hurry. There is a staff meeting to attend.

As she finishes breakfast she notices Chekov walking past her, deep in thought over something.

"Pavel!" she calls out, waving her hand to get his attention.

"Lieutenant Uhura!" he exclaims, snapping out of his reverie. His back straightens slightly and she wonders if it is an unconscious effort that he is snapping to attention.

She smiles. She remembers what it's like to be that young, to be dazzled by everything around her and to be slightly intimidated by it all. "It's okay, Pavel. I just wanted to know if you were heading off to the staff meeting."

Chekov nods his head anxiously. "Yes, Nyota. Vould you like me to accompany you?"

She shakes her head, charmed by his offer. "No, thank you, I'm still not finished breakfast. Would you please tell the Captain and Commander Spock that I will be there soon?"

Chekov nods again. "Of course, Nyota. I vill be sure to do so."

She grins, "thanks, Pavel. I appreciate it. See you later."

Chekov waves as he walks off, his step a little more hurried. She smiles, thinking of how much Pavel reminds her of her younger brother, studying at the University of Nairobi. Physics, the last she heard. He was thinking of furthering his studying at the American University at Cairo after he finished his degree in Nairobi. She feels a pang of sadness, of homesickness. There are so many things she is going to miss while she's exploring space—all of those graduations and weddings and births that she should be there to celebrate. Sure, there were subspace comms, but that didn't replace the heat and light of Earth's sun. It didn't replace the warmth she felt stepping into her parent's house, smelling the feast her mother was cooking in the kitchen, thumbing through her father's books, the sounds of her nieces and nephews playing while her brothers argued over 3D chess moves...

She feels tears prick her eyes and she shakes her head. She's being silly, emotional. It's the stress again.

She gets up, taking her tray over to the trash receptacle. She still has a few minutes before the meeting, but she should still hurry. It's not like her to be one of the last ones to the meeting and as she looks around the mess she thinks she may be the only senior officer in there.

She walks the corridors of the _Enterprise_ to the staffroom, a room with a huge faux mahogany table and faux leather executive office chairs. There is a refreshment table in the corner, but now she feels so full she thinks she is going to be sick. She makes her apologies to the Captain, who waves it off and she steals a glance at Spock, who moves to sit next to the Captain. She feels through the bond that he wants her to sit next to him, expects her to sit next to him. McCoy is grumbling about having the meeting in the first place and Nyota can't say she disagrees with him. Her muscles are still a little stiff from what happened on the planet and she's got a raging headache that's threatening to become a migraine and she would really just like to get this shift over with so she can take a nice, long hot shower and catch a nap.

Kirk lets them know there is the opportunity for shore leave coming up and her spirits perk up. It would be nice to go to a planet where people aren't trying to kill them. Besides, there are still some things that she and Spock need to get for their quarters and this would be the perfect opportunity to do so.

Kirk continues, talking about this and that, where they plan to go next and so on. She should care, she really should as Communications Officer, but she really just wants this meeting to be over with. Spock, she observes is listening politely, having nothing to contribute other than the occasional comment about navigation, or a factoid about a particularly solar system they would be entering.

"Captain," Bones interrupts the Chief of Security with a wave of his hand and a apologetic look on his face that is clearly not felt, "I'm glad that we have some sort of idea where we're going out here in the nothingness, but exactly how is this going to help me do my job saving people's lives? Unless, of course, you want me to conduct a study on how long it takes to bore people to death?"

Kirk considers this for a moment before rolling his eyes in good-natured indulgence. "Point taken, Bones. Meeting's adjourned, everyone. See you on the bridge. And get those leave requests to me, would you?"

Nyota grins. "Captain, you almost sounded responsible there for a second."

He grins back at her. "Did I now, Lieutenant? I'll have to remedy that. We can't have the Captain be _responsible_ now, can we?"

She laughs. "See you on the bridge, Captain."

As she walks out, she realizes Spock is with her. "You wish to partake in the opportunity for shore leave, Nyota?"

She nods. "Yes, we need some things for our quarters—besides, wouldn't it be nice to be on a planet without people trying to kill us?"

He considers this. "The chances us experiencing violence on this planet are .00582%."

"See?" she says, smiling. "We should go."

She is having trouble concentrating.

There is nothing of importance for her to translate. Her job of late seems to be more of that of 20th century Terran switchboard operators than it does a communications officer. Everyone is speaking in Standard, everyone is speaking of banalities. To be honest, she wants to scream. She wants something interesting to happen. She wants there to be some alien language that no one has heard so she can try to decipher it.

Instead, she gets silence outside the ship and inside the ship she gets noise.

And when did her chair get so uncomfortable?

She leans back and then forward, trying to ease the ache in her back before rubbing it. She rolls her shoulders, her neck, anything to ease the tension but nothing is working and it's making her frustrated. She feels Spock's concern and his attempts to send her peace and calm, but nothing helps.

She takes a deep breath, reciting in her head all the declensions and conjugations in Vulcan. She switches to Orion, and then Andorian. It helps somewhat, it at the very least takes her mind off of things.

_Just a couple of hours_, she tells herself. _Come on, Uhura. Pull yourself together._

_

* * *

_

It does not get better.

She made the appointment with Christine Chapel who, as expected, attributed her aches and pains as residual mission injuries, her moodiness to extreme stress and her weird menstrual flow to the new contraceptive. She gave her a mild blocker hypo for the pain and told her to give her body another month to get used to the new implant. She was, apparently, not the only woman on the ship having side effects from it, though none are having the extended periods she is. Christine assured her it was all normal, all just stress and hormones and the only real remedy was time.

Yet her nights alternate between those of insomnia and exhaustion. She tries to concentrate on her favorite academic journals, even tries to read a few of her favorite Vulcan texts to no avail. She will read the same sentence, over and over again without realizing it.

And Spock—Poor Spock, she thinks. One minute, everything is fine between them. Then, she distances herself from him, shutting him out of her mind. She can't explain it, not adequately. She tells him, tells herself that it's the hormones, the stress, the bad memories still too vivid, but they both know that it is something deeper than that, something black and evil that neither of them want to confront.

But they will have to she thinks. Eventually, this thing is going to consume them.


	30. Chapter 30

**It's really nice to be back.  
Thank you all for the very lovely reviews and I promise that questions will be answered in due time. Thank you so much to AtanaM for taking time out of her very very busy life to help me with this and I hope she knows how greatly she's improved this chapter and this story as a whole. I cannot, could not do this without you.**

**

* * *

**

He does not wish to speak with her.

No, that is an inaccurate statement, that is not his meaning. It is not the conversation he illogically wishes to avoid. It is, rather, the vocalization of his shame. He does not want to confront the fact that he has done this to her, has made her sick. He was not careful, he let his emotions, his _feelings_ possess him and now they must suffer the consequences.

In truth, he has been avoiding this moment since Kirk identified his problem so quaintly as "woman troubles." Nyota told him that it was merely a result of residual stress from recent events coupled with a chemical and physical neuroreaction to a new contraceptive in rotation. The combination of those factors, she told him, was causing changes in her mood, matter and biorhythms. He was not to worry, it was nothing to be concerned about and for a time he was more than willing to believe her lie.

No, he thinks, that is also inaccurate. Though she is completely capable of the act, Nyota is not lying to him. She herself believes that it is simply biological upheaval and stress. She does not know differently, does not know the...alternatives to the meaning of the changes within her body and mind. She is not Vulcan, she has no logical reason to view her symptomatology than anything other than human biological standards. He himself has only recent seen the symptoms for what they might be and while there is a part of him that desperately wishes to continue the charade, he knows he cannot, no longer. He has let this go long enough as it stands.

He wishes that he could pretend, that he could, in the face of this fact walk through their door and act as if nothing is the matter, acting as if he is fine, as if she is fine, as if they are fine.

But he cannot. He knows of this terrible thing he has done and if he continues to evade the obvious she could die.

Now he must face the consequences.

* * *

She has never felt better.

As she makes tea, she knows how silly this must sound if she were to say this aloud, but she, given what she has gone through, has never felt better. She woke up this morning after the best sleep of her life, she is neither exhausted from too much sleep nor too little, she actually ate normally instead of feeling vaguely nauseous or dizzyingly ravenous as she did every morning, her pains are gone and as far she can tell her moods have been fairly normal today. In fact, today she genuinely felt happy—as if it was this remarkable thing to be alive and well and _being_.

She hopes Spock arrives soon, she wants to sit and talk with him and go about their off hours together as if everything was completely okay, because it actually was for a change. There wasn't a Sybok after them, no chemical imbalance to keep them apart, everything was as it should be and it was profoundly marvelous.

The tea steeps and she carries the mug out to their living quarters. She sits on the sofa, concentrating for a moment. She can feel Spock if she concentrates long enough and she imagines that with enough time and practice, she won't need to consciously make the effort anymore. He has finished his shift and any lingering duties, she senses and he is coming back to their quarters. Suddenly, a sense of dread coils within her and she cannot understand why. She thought things were fine, at least they were for her. Why is he so...frightened? She reviews the last few days-their interactions, their conversations, everything of pertinence. What has made him so upset? She cannot think of anything. The mission since Mantose IV was so routine, charting a heretofore unexplored portion of the Nebarian Nebula. No danger, no surprises. It has been almost boring for weeks. True, she has not been feeling well, has been off-kilter emotionally and physically but that was completely understandable under the circumstances. Spock had not held it against her when she explained what was going on. He had been so understanding and kind, willing to give her time to work things out. Had she been blind this entire time? So wrapped up in her own trauma that she missed something important? Something that would fill him with this sense of dread?

Like quicksilver, she is furious at him and herself. She hates herself for being so self-absorbed that she did not even realize that something was bothering him. What kind of bondmate was she? She hates him for doing this, for bringing this sense of dread home and ruining her. She hates that he can't just let them _be_. He has to over-complicate everything and now they're going to fight and she's going to yell and she doesn't want to go to bed angry.

They've been through so much.

Why can't they just have a nice dinner and quiet evening at home?

As he walks in, he remembers the first time Nyota was really, truly angry with him.

They were not in a relationship, not quite yet. She was still his teaching assistant, there were rules, regulations, things intentionally left unsaid keeping them apart. Still, they had spent so much time together that in retrospect it was rather...illogical that he used those excuses as obfuscation.

The night before, they were supposed to eat together. However, he had a meeting before with the faculty of the computer science department, a meeting which ending well after cadet curfew. He would have sent her a message, to let her know that he would have to postpone their dinner meeting, but he had neglected to do so, assuming that she would just infer that his meeting had run late and thus their dinner was canceled. The next morning, he walked into his office and said hello to her, as he always did, yet she did not respond. She always responded, she always said 'good morning, Commander,' and smiled at him. Instead, she simply nodded her head to acknowledge his greeting and said nothing. He was surprised how much it saddened him; something was now not quite right and he desperately wanted to make it right, wanted to make her smile again.

He observes her sitting on the couch and he realizes that there is so much that is different from that moment, how once he ascertained his mistake and vocalized it, she accepted his apology and he took her to her favorite restaurant the next day. A relationship was established a two months, one week and three days later. His planet was destroyed, his mother killed. He discovered a brother, he endured his time. There is so much between them, so many things they have had to endure together.

Yet, and he hesitates to think this, he is not sure they can endure this.

He may have killed her. He would not find her to blame if she were to refuse to see him ever again.

"God, Spock, would you just talk already? I really can't stand it when you're brooding like that," she snaps at him, staring fixedly at her mug of tea.

He looks up and over at the chrono. Five minutes, twenty three seconds have passed since he entered their quarters. She has not said hello to him, she has not kissed him. Nothing is like it should be and he is, as humans say, stalling.

"I am sorry, ashayam," he murmurs. There is so much he is sorry for.

She looks at him, her anger softening somewhat. "Why? Why are you sorry?"

He has tried to find the words before this moment yet when she asks him why, he finds that all the words are gone from his mind and he is stuck, blank, with nothing to say to her. He simply does not know why to say.

"Spock," she sighs. "You have to tell me what's wrong; you have to let me in."

He continues to stare at her, saying nothing. It occurs to him that he really could say nothing, he could tell her that the anxiety that she feels from him is because he had a particularly troubling meeting with Kirk, which would not be that far from the truth, given that Kirk is such a troubling individual. He could _lie_.

No, no he could not. Vulcans do not _lie_, even by omission. He must tell her the truth, he must destroy them to save her.

"Nyota," he begins, taking a deep breath. "How are you feeling?"


End file.
